


Wearing Robert's Crown

by drakensis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 179,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6833305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakensis/pseuds/drakensis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Robert Baratheon who takes the crown in AC 283 is not the man who they expected, nor will he be the king they looked for. Through the eyes of others as the Seven Kingdoms seeks an new balance of power under a new dynasty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Ned I**

Robert seemed to sway slightly as he saw the bodies lying at the foot of the Iron Throne. The sizes made it clear which of them was Aerys Targaryen, which his good-daughter and which two were his grandchildren.

Over the last year, Ned Stark had seen a burning anger growing inside his foster-brother - a hatred of Rhaegar Targaryen and all his kin. He feared that Robert would act unwisely now, taint his reign from the beginning.

To his relief, their new king - as yet uncrowned - merely moved from one to another. In each case he dropped to one knee and tugged aside the Lannister crimson cloaks so he could inspect their faces. For each he then nodded solemnly - in confirmation or in recognition, Ned could not say - and then moved on.

After examining Aegon last, Robert rose to his feet and ascended the steps to stand beside Ned, Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister at the foot of the Iron Throne. "How did they die?" he asked coolly.

"Elia Martell and her children died in the sack," Jon said dispassionately. "Aerys..."

"My son slew him."

Robert's blue eyes narrowed as he looked at the Lord of Casterly Rock. "You mean Ser Jaime, I take it?"

The Lannister's own eyes reduced to dangerous slits. "Of course."

"I would almost have believed your younger boy so enterprising before I thought the elder to forswear his oaths. Still, the deed is done." He shook his head. "Well. He more than deserves to account for himself publically. Where is he?"

"Secure."

Robert scowled. "Well secure his person here. I want to hear this. And perhaps we all should."

"Will you take your seat?" Jon asked, changing the subject with a gesture to the massive and dangerous looking Iron Throne.

"I am more than half tempted," the new King observed, "To have this melted down for scrap. It's an ugly thing... and I doubt the view is all that attractive." He looked around at the mounds of dragonbones that also cluttered the great hall. "Yes, I believe I will have that done. In the meantime, someone find me a chair. There must be at least one that survived the sack."

The chair arrived before the youngest knight of the Kingsguard.

"I found the Lannister here on the throne itself," warned Ned when Tywin was out of earshot. "Sword still wet with the king's blood."

Robert nodded quietly and removed his cloak, folding it over one arm. He turned to the room eyes sweeping across knights and lords from every land that had pledged him their swords against the Mad King. "This is not yet the end," he declared loudly enough to be heard even at the far end of the hall. "The southernmost kingdoms still fly the dragon's banners. Yet it is the beginning of the end."

He walked behind the simple wooden chair. "It is said that a king is wed to his realm, before even to his queen. And who is a realm but the people - the knights and lords and other goodly folk? And so I ask you now. Will you have me now as your King, and this as my throne?"

"Hail Robert Baratheon!" called Jon Arryn, astutely, and scores of voices joined him. Ned's was amongst them. He could see bannermen of the Lannisters and Tullys calling out as loudly as those of the North, the Vale or the Stormlands. A good omen perhaps.

For a long moment Robert let them call out their support and then he unfolded his cloak and draped the comparatively unimposing chair in the colours of House Baretheon. "So be it. I, Robert Baratheon, son of Steffon Baratheon and Cassana Estermont, am proclaimed by your words as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Robert sat and once again Westeros had a king.

There was an ironic clapping from the door, cut off as Tywin Lannister elbowed his son sharply. "My apologies, your grace." Jaime Lannister walked forward to face the new king. "I was... overcome by the moment."

"I'm sure." Robert pointed down at Aerys. "I see your latest deed, Ser Jaime. Doubtless word of it has spread already. But what I do not hear is why."

"Does it matter, your grace?"

"I will be making a great number of decisions in the future. It is the nature of kingship, I am told. Or perhaps merely of life. But I would know what could push one of the lands' most acclaimed knights to break his oaths. It cannot, I feel, be a mere trifle."

Jaime looked at him and Ned had to admit that Robert had a point: from up on the throne it would be hard for Robert to see clearly the faces of those before the throne, particularly in the dim light. "When my father's army entered the city I knew that there was no hope of defending the Red Keep. I therefore requested permission to make terms. King Aerys instead ordered that I bring him my father's head."

Ned thought of his own father, burned to death inside the walls of the Red Keep. That had brought him to rebellion but he had not sworn such oaths...

"Aye?" Robert leant forwards. "You could have simply opened the gates to your kinsmen, Ser Jaime. Instead you acted personally. That strikes me as something more upon you than an impossible - and heinous - command."

The young knight threw back his head and laughed. He laughed and laughed, as every eye in the hall focused upon him. Then at last he stilled his laugh. "The King had appointed Rossart, the Grand Master of the Alchemists, as his Hand. On his command, Rossart was to see that all of King's Landing was consumed in wildfire. Is that sufficient reason, your grace?"

All of King's Landing in flames... Ned blanched and saw he was not alone in doing so. He'd see the sack in progress but now he feared he'd see it again, with the entire horror ablaze with green wildfire. Tywin, whose vanguard would doubtless have been consumed in such an inferno, was looking at his son in astonishment.

Only Robert seemed unmoved. "I am inclined to think so." He rose. "This is my first decree as your King. The Order of the Kingsguard is hereby disbanded and dissolved. Its members, having been bound by mighty oaths to the whims of the mad King, I hereby offer amnesty for all deeds and crimes they may have been forced to commit until this day. I further absolve Ser Jaime Lannister of all wrongdoing in the death of the mad King and..." He stepped forwards and extended his hand. "I offer him my personal thanks."

Ser Jaime stared at the hand and then unclasped the white cloak of his former office, letting it pool upon the floor behind him as he went to meet the King and the two men clasped hands.

* * *

 

**Jon I**

From the first hours of the Rebellion Jon had worried about what sort of king Robert would be. He loved the boy like one of the sons he'd never had, but he had to admit that Ned - the other 'son' - was a hundred times as responsible.

These first two days though had shown him another side of the man Robert had grown into, charming Crownland lords and many of the Lannister host into allegiance that sometimes went beyond the grudging. (Not Lord Tywin, of course, but that would never have happened).

Of course, he had always been gregarious but his appetites had previously been limited to wines and the hunt - including the hunt for wenches to bed. Now somehow the young King had shown an appetite for the mundane work of kingship.

A map of King's Landing was being filled out before them as reports came in to detail the damage during the sack. The worst was around the Lion Gate where the Lannister forces had been allowed in, but there was a trail of destruction through to the centre of the city and then up the main avenue to the Red Keep. Most alarming were the red crosses marking where the alchemists had revealed caches of wildfire had been buried. Their number was considerable.

"Since we have to dig up so much of the city we may as well do something about the drains," Robert was grumbling. "I have to live in this damn place and I'd rather I wasn't left holding my nose the whole time."

"You get used to it after a while, your grace."

"That isn't a reassurance." Robert tapped his finger on the Dragonpit, the ruined dome atop Rhaenys' Hill. "And we'll do something with that too. It's one of the largest buildings in the city, leaving it closed is ridiculous."

"It's not as if you have dragons to house there, Robert."

The young man looked over at Jon and smiled. "Perhaps I'll make it the new royal residence. The Red Keep isn't precisely ideal and there's something to be said for making a new start."

"In any event, affairs of state beckon."

Robert sighed and shook his head. "Very well then." He acknowledged the bows of the other men around the table as he walked away. "So what's the matter now?"

"We need to decide on the membership of the Small Council," Jon reminded him as they descended the tower stairs. "If nothing else, we need a Master of Coin if you're planning to empty the treasury rebuilding King's Landing."

"That would be going a little far," admitted Robert thoughtfully. "Well, let's start with the easiest position to fill: Pycelle is still Grand Maester and we're stuck with him until he dies."

"Do you trust him?"

"Not even slightly. It was on his advice Aerys had the gates opened to the Lannisters - see how well that worked out for the Mad King."

"It worked out to your benefit though."

"I doubt it was his design." Robert rubbed his face. "Do you have any one in mind who could replace Varys?"

"Unfortunately, no. And he advised against admitting the Lannisters. By that logic, do you trust him?"

"His competence at least. I see no choice but to retain him for now or be half-blinded when it comes to the Kingdoms. And the rest of the world, come to that."

Jon nodded glumly. "That's my own thinking. Now without the Kingsguard, there's no need for a Lord Commander to sit."

"I've a thought or two on how to replace that institution. Not, however, holding a seat on the Small Council. We can defer any replacment."

"Then you can assume that the High Septon will petition to represent the Faithful upon the Small Council."

Robert muttered something under his breath. Possibly "Give me strength," although Jon couldn't have sworn to that. "No, absolutely not. I considered a Master of Arms to assist in organising the raising of armies..." He raised his hand to still Jon's words: "But I realise that encroaches upon the roles of the Wardens so I decided against it. Fear not, Jon."

"That leaves the Masters of Coin, Laws and Ships to decide."

Robert opened the door to the royal solar, which still hadn't been entirely stripped of Targaryen heraldry, and ushered Jon in with utter disregard for his own royal dignity. "I have a certain thought, Jon, which I'd like to discuss with you. A sensitive matter."

"Oh?"

The king poured wine into two goblets, although Jon noticed to his astonishment that he also added water from a second flagon to his own goblet. "There's far too much wine here," he said defensively. "If I drank everything that came to hand I'd never stop drinking and I doubt flagons would impress the Seven Kingdoms as much as dragons did."

"Are you sure you aren't feverish, Robert?"

Dark eyebrows twitched above the king's blue eyes. "Perhaps I'm still lying wounded somewhere in the eastern Reach and all this is a dream."

"It really isn't. So what are you considering?"

Robert looked at the goblet in his hand. "We planned on you being my Hand. There's no one I admire more. But now I'm wondering if appointing you now is the right thing to do."

"What do you mean?"

"The war isn't over," the King explained. "We might be nearing the end of the fighting, but there's still the need to bring the Reach and Dorne back into the fold - hopefully without more fighting but we can't count on that - and to convince the rest of Westeros that we're restoring stability."

"I agree so far."

"Well, that means I need someone to go to Dorne to try to persuade them that it isn't our fault that Prince Lewyn was killed at the Trident or Princess Elia here. Which... isn't going to to be easy. They may not welcome you."

"It's an acceptable risk."

"Yes, but I mean to leverage you as much advantage as possible. Lewyn died on the battlefield but the Martells will certainly know Elia was murdered by Lannister bannermen. I'm considering asking Tywin Lannister to assist me by acting as Hand of the King until you return."

Jon thought a moment. "Ah, you think the Martells won't dare preventing me from returning if it means that you might make Tywin your Hand permanently."

"That's right."

"That's unsually deep thought for you, Robert."

"I have a lot of experience with seductions. It's always easier if there's an ugly suitor in the wings."

Jon rubbed his face. "I suppose that makes sense. And Tywin is certainly able. You might decide you want to keep him as your Hand."

Robert threw back his head and roared with laughter. "In that case, my friend, you can go back to the Eyrie and father a dozen little Arryns on your lovely young bride. And then, ten years from now, you can inflict them upon me in a long-awaited revenge."

* * *

  
**Tywin I**

Robert Baratheon was not as expected. At some point in the not too distant future, Tywin intended to speak firmly with some of his informants about that. For now, however, he needed to deal with a King who - under the jovial bonhomie - clearly had a brain that was good for something more than keeping his ears from touching each other.

"Thank you for seeing me, your grace."

"I'm sorry it couldn't be earlier." Robert gestured to one of two well-stuffed armchairs either side of the fire. "This ruling business... never a spare moment. Does it get any easier?"

"One learns to manage one's time."

"That's good to know. Wine?"

Tywin accepted the goblet the king filled for him. No servants, he noticed. Interesting. Was it a statement or a precaution?

Sitting down opposite Tywin, Robert stretched out his legs. "There are a few things I wanted to ask you, but you asked to meet with me so by all means go first."

"Firstly, I would like to thank you for giving me back my son."

Robert nodded and then their eyes met. The king nodded again, understanding it was as clear a statment as Tywin would give of being indebted to him.

"Secondly, is there any news of Lady Lyanna Stark?"

"It seems she's held to the south. Her brother will be leading a party to rescue her."

It was Tywin's turn to nod. "I realise that this is not advice you may wish to hear, but after being a prisoner for so long and... possibly mistreated... you should keep in mind that she may not be prepared to be Queen."

Robert Baratheon went very very still. "Lord Tywin, had Aerys taken Lady Joanna from you as his son took Lyanna from me..."

"Yours is the fury," conceded Tywin, making a mental not not draw that fury upon himself. It was far colder than he had thought. "I am glad for you, your grace. It is not often that men such as we may know such women."

"Then we have an understanding." He emptied his goblet. "Is there a third matter?"

"Not for my part. You had concerns of your own though."

"I do." Robert set down his goblet and leant forwards. "I'm sending an army south to relieve Storm's End and hopefully persuade Mace Tyrell to come to terms. Ned has family to rescue and Jon will be dealing with Dorne. Normally as Warden I'd offer you command of the army, however, I have another position that you would even more qualified for."

"Oh?"

"It's clear that some members of the Small Council will have to be carried over from Aerys' council. We need the stability. At the same time, while I fully intend to appoint Jon Arryn as my Hand eventually, there are a number of other roles he's needed in."

Was he suggesting...?

"I realise I'd be asking a lot, but would you be willing to be my Hand for the next few months, maybe a year?" Robert sighed. "I'll tell you upfront that I may wind up 'dismissing' you to pacify the Dornish. It's no secret that two of your knights slew Princess Elia and you know how hot-headed the Dornish can be."

"It needed to be done."

"The children, yes. And I doubt she'd have stood by for it. But dammit, man!" The king thumped the arm of his chair. "But don't brag about it! Dark deeds are done in the dark where no one can see them. I may need to have Ser Amory and Ser Gregor sent to the Wall as well."

"They are my loyal bannermen, your grace," warned Tywin quietly.

"Are you offering to pay additional taxes to wage war against Dorne? You know how that went for the Targaryens. I won't ask that if I can reasonably avoid it... but better two knights than an army."

"That is inarguable." Tywin frowned in thought. "I will serve as your Hand, your grace, under the circumstances that you describe. However, I would have my son Jaime lead the army south. He will be Warden one day."

"Of course. Lord Tully's brother Brynden will be in command of the Riverlands contingent, I'll be naming him as second in command. And once Storm's End is relieved, well Stannis is the King's brother so..."

"Ser Brynden is very able knight, your grace. And you are correct that Lord Stannis -"

Robert raised one finger in admonishment. "Prince Stannis."

"Of course. Prince Stannis will have the right to take command once your ancestral home is no longer besieged. How many men will you be sending?"

"Seven thousand or so from each Kingdom's levies. Thirty-five thousand in all. That will leave me enough men to secure King's Landing and still send some of the western lords back to the Riverlands and the North."

The map of the Seven Kingdoms spread out before Tywin. "Have you news of Lord Quellon?"

"None, and that concerns me. The Greyjoy's health is failing and his son's a hothead. If Balon Greyjoy rules the Iron Isles we could have longships ravaging the western coasts. If it turns out nothing happens, well that's a good ten thousand troops I don't have to feed any more."

"I'm pleased you intend to rule the realm and not merely to conquer it."

Robert chuckled and reached for the wine again. "I do have that reputation, don't I?" He filled his goblet and then Tywins. The two men raised their goblets in toast to each other.

* * *

 

**Stannis I**

From the gatehouse, Stannis watched Mace Tyrell walk forwards under a flag of truce. He'd called for the truce and no doubt the fat Reachman thought that it was a prelude to surrender.

"So, Lord Stannis, have you finally run out of things to eat?" the Lord Paramount of the Reach asked amiably once he saw Stannis face behind the barred window in the gate. "I can have a few carts brought forward if you're willing to finally see sense about this?"

Stannis scowled deeply. "That's Prince Stannis to you, Tyrell," he said sharply.

"I don't believe your House is Targaryen, but my question remains."

"I've had a letter from my brother. He indicates I should share it with you in the hopes you'll see reason." Stannis bared his teeth. "Personally I hope that you don't."

"And what does the Pretender have to say for himself?"

Stannis took the much folded parchment out and started from the top: "To my royal brother Prince Stannis Baratheon, heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms, greetings. I have this day been acclaimed in the great hall of Maegor's Keep as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Aerys the Mad's dead body lay before the throne as I took my seat, soon to be buried alongside his dead son Rhaegar."

"I assure you that my earliest priority in concluding this war is to relieve the siege of our home. An army marches south to Storm's End. I counsel you to share these facts with Lord Tyrell and you may assure him in my name that should he bow the knee to our House then no more shall be said of his allegiance to the Targaryens. However, should he decline this offer then he may not expect such generosity."

"I look forwards to being reunited with you and our brother Renly as soon as may be. By my own hand, King Robert Baratheon."

Stannis looked up from the parchment out the window at Tyrell. "Well, Lord Tyrell. Do you accept my brother's offer... or not? It would, from my part, be very welcome if you declined so we may exact a due price for your enmity."

Tyrell's face had grown redder as Stannis read. "Your word, and your brother's, are hardly an assurance that things go as ill for the House of Targaryen as you describe. And if they do, then Rhaegar has a son and a brother still. Take delight then, Lord Stannis, and tighten your belt. I will have Storm's End and then my armies will march north and we will see how well your brother sings."

"That tends to depend how much wine he's drunk," Stannis said bluntly. "Then there's no more to say. Go back to your lines and await the storm."


	2. Chapter 2

**Ned II**

Robert had decided to wear the crown of Aegon V, his direct ancestor among the Kings of Westeros. Before Aegon the Unlikely the simple golden band had been worn by Aegon III, the king who ended the Dance of Dragons more than a century and half before. It might be a good omen, Ned thought.

The presence of Tywin Lannister beside Robert and wearing a chain of interlinked hands around his neck, however temporarily, wasn't so promising. However much Robert and Jon insisted it was a bargaining ploy against the Martells, no doubt the Lannisters were already going to be spreading poison words - and gold - to pull themselves into political power within Robert's court.

I wish I was riding north, not south, he thought.

Robert grabbed Ned by the shoulders and hugged him fiercely. "You're thinking of home again," he said with the same odd insight he'd been showing of late.

"Aye. We Starks... do not do well in the south."

"Perhaps not. But you have friends here as well as enemies. Find Lyanna and then we can make an end of this mess," he promised.

"I'll do that." Ned looked over and saw Tywin giving a more reserved send-off to his son. Ned would be riding with Jaime's army as far as the King's Wood, after which their roads parted. With luck a small party could make its way along the border between the Reach and Dorne until the reached the remote tower where Lyanna was being held.

Robert released him and stepped back. "There's one more formality before you go." He raised his voice so that all the lords gathered in the main courtyard of the Red Keep could hear him. "My lords, I would have you witness my words today, before you ride forth to bring and end to this war."

He beckoned to Jon Arryn, who wouldn't be leaving until the evening tide. The old man stepped up to join them and Robert placed his hands on their shoulders.

"No greater love has any man but that he would lay down his life for you. More than a year ago, when the madness of Aerys was revealed to us all, two men stood with me against him. We had no certainty that others would join us, but for their honour and for their friendship they joined with me."

"We could have failed. The darkness of the dragons could still loom over us with tyranny. But our cause was just and with your help we have overcome the Targaryens."

"To honour my friends, a man as close to me as my father was, a man as close to me as my brothers are, I hereby raise the House of Arryn and the House of Stark to be princely houses. I do this not because they have sought these honours but because, to my eyes, they are deserving of them."

Ned gave serious thought to strangling Robert. Couldn't he have warned him!?

With a grin that suggested he knew exactly how Ned felt, Robert beckoned to a servant and accepted a roll of leather. Unfolding it he pulled out two golden brooches. Both showed a stag facing but super-imposed on them were other heraldic beasts. On one the falcon of the Arryns, on the other the direwolf of the Starks.

Robert pinned the falcon brooch to the breast of Jon's tunic and then the second brooch to Ned's cloak. "My lords I present to you the Prince of the Vale and the Prince of the North. Long may they defend our ancient rights and liberties!"

Cheers arose from the men before them, calls of "Stark!" and "Arryn!" peppered with the occasional "Bara-Theon!"

Robert's hand tightened on Ned's arm and beneath the cover of the cheers he said quietly: "Ride like the wind, Ned. And bring her home safely."

"Home..."

His friend smiled, a little more tightly than usual. "Wherever she says home is, Ned. After all this time who knows what... well. I can't help but think if I'd listened more..."

"Don't think like that Robert. It was Rhaegar's fault."

"Aye. And his father's. But it's not just fault, Ned. It's responsibility." For a dreadful moment he didn't look like Robert at all. Then the mood seemed to pass and he grinned merrily. "Go on with you, Ned. Get your arse south and find me a northern rose - or at least bring back some of the southern wines!"

Obedient to his king, Ned went to his horse and mounted up. The northern lords like Rickard Karstark - who would lead them to Storm's End - and William Dustin - who had set his levies home but pledged that he himself would ride with Ned to the end - falling in behind him.

And when he looked back he saw Rob slap Jon on the back and wondered just how much becoming king had changed Robert - and how much being Lord - no, Prince - of the North would change him.

* * *

 

**Tywin II**

The Small Council met in the Tower of the Hand and without difficulty Tywin had had the chamber furnished precisely as it had been during his previous term of office. Few of the furnishings had been changed and those that had were easily put to rights.

Of course, there was no chance of putting the same faces in place - or not all of them. Pycelle had been a member of the council well before Tywin. The soft, bald Varys had been on the council before Tywin's resignation, although not for long. Other than that the council was full of newcomers - most significantly the King.

Robert Baratheon sat where Aerys had once had his chair. Dark where the Targaryen had been pale, full of ready charm that had... well, no. Aerys had once been able to muster that in his own way. The years had not been kind to him.

There was no Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but that seat was occupied by a pale-eyed northern lord. Roose Bolton. While Tywin had not heard of him specifically, his House was known as old rivals of the Starks. And as men who still practised ancient and barbaric customs even by the standards of the north.

The new Master of Ships was Lyonel Corbray, heir to Heart's Home. An Arryn choice and probably not one that would endure. His house had fought for the royalists at first but turned their coats once Jon Arryn and Robert retook Gulltown in one of the first battles of the rebellion and killed Marq Grafton. One of the Corbrays had done well at the Trident but not this one. Mostly his role was symbolic: a sign that former royalists would not be excluded from power.

Hoster Tully was sitting as Master of Coins but plainly this was a temporary measure - the Lord of the Riverlands was clearly smarting that while his daughters were both princesses now, he himself was not similarly honoured. Well, nor was Tywin and certainly House Lannister deserved that far more than Tullys did. No, Tully would shortly go back to Riverun and a more suitable choice might be found. Perhaps, once Tywin himself departed back to Casterly Rock, Tygett or Gerion would be steadied by the role. Certainly some Lannister presence would be in order.

Lomas Estermont, a kinsman of the King's, was Master of Laws. He obviously held royal favour so his place would probably be secure as long as he wanted it. Unlike Corbray he seemed competent enough but impressions could be deceiving.

"Will Lord Bolton be leading a new Kingsguard?" asked Hoster once the men had all been introduced to each other.

Robert shook his head. "I don't intend to reinstate the Kingsguard in their old form. For that matter I'm unhappy with the Goldcloaks. They were shit all use defending the city and now that it's my city that isn't good enough. What I have in mind is to divide the responsibilities of both between three new organisations."

"And Lord Bolton's role would be?" asked Varys in his deceptively gentle voice.

Robert gave Roose a nod and the northerner swept the council with his eyes. "I have accepted the position of the Seneschal of the City," he said softly. Dangerously so. Tywin straightened slightly and reappraised the man. "Among other responsibilities I will head a City Watch tasked with keeping the peace within King's Landing."

"Traditionally wasn't that the responsibility of the Master of Laws?" asked Lomas.

The pale eyes swept to look at him. "The Master of Laws determines what the laws are. I will see that they are enforced."

"The City Watch can, if absolutely necessary, reinforce the defenses of the city but isn't their primary purpose." Robert held up two hands, side by side. "That task falls to the King's Men, a body of soldiery who will man and maintain the city's defenses as well as those of the Royal Court. On Lord Tywin's recommendation they may also have a mounted element to suppress banditry on the roads around the city. We all know how many sellswords will turn their hands to banditry once they're paid off. Or not paid, as is so often the case."

Tywin frowned thinly. His soldiers were paid precisely and correctly but other Lords were less careful. And, of course, the ability of a sellsword to retain money for any period was scant. Sooner or later they would want to replenish their purses and their only trade was their swords...

"Do you intend to entirely dispense with loyal knights around you, your grace It seems unwise." Pycelle's voice was reedy.

"Not at all. However, rather than a lifetime of service, I intend to select seven knights each year, each pledged to seven years of service with a substantial reward at the end of it. Once brought to full strength there will be forty-nine knights around myself and my family - a rather more manageable number to complete that duty than merely seven - as well as taking command of the King's Men as necessary. Precise details remain to be established. While our armies contain many worthy knights, in future years I propose to hold annual tourneys so that suitable candidates for the Royal Guards may be selected."

"Such a tourney could serve many roles by gathering lords and knights from all over Westeros on a regular basis." It could also be expensive for the Crown, Tywin thought. Then again, since he wasn't going to be the Hand for more than a year or two, was it his business if Robert spent fortunes on tournaments.

"Just don't expect me to overshine Harrenhal every year." Robert rubbed his chin - he'd shaved off the beard he'd grown during the fighting and his skin was paler. "Aerys didn't manage to empty his treasury but we'll need to dig into that for repairing the damage King's Landing has taken, not to mention bringing the walls and towers back into good condition."

"And then there are your grand plans for the Dragonpit." Hoster Tully folded his arms. "Just repairing the windows will take a fortune in glass. And I'm not sure if there are builders anywhere who can restore the dome."

"If there aren't then the Targaryens have led us all into decay." The king folded his hands. "But that is the work of several years. For now all that's being done is removing the wildfire the alchemists placed there and clearing it out so that the smallfolk of the city can shelter inside until their homes are rebuilt."

"And then you'll need your King's Men to dig all the beggars out."

"If they've nowhere else to go they can take the black." Turning from Tywin to the Master of Ships, Robert leant forwards. "Now, Ser Lyonel, how are preparations going to assemble a fleet that can secure Dragonstone? It may be the hereditary domain of the Targaryens, but its also part of the Seven Kingdoms and I don't plan on leaving them even the scraps."

* * *

  
**Jon II**

Sunspear was as hot and uncomfortable as Jon Arryn had remembered from a visit in his youth. The looks he got were heated too. His escort had very pointedly avoided the Threefold Gate and marched him through miles of hidden courts, and noisy streets before at last reaching the Old Palace.

There were two Dornish princes in the grand hall, Prince Doran seated and his younger brother Oberyn stood behind him. In looks they were much alike save for the silver creeping through Doran's hair, but while Doran's face was a cool mask, Oberyn's eyes burned.

Many lords thought the Red Viper was the more dangerous of the Martells. Jon was wiser than that.

There was a table before the dais with bread and salt laid out. No one offered it to Jon. So he would have to win even guest right. Prince Doran's sword was by his chair but not yet across his lap - a sign that hospitality might yet be offered.

"Jon Arryn. I am told you now style yourself Prince of the Vale."

He flicked a finger at the brooch on his chest, making mental note that Doran clearly had good sources of information in King's Landing. Not really a surprise. "As proclaimed by the king."

"Ah, the king." Doran cradled his chin in one hand. "Rhaegar died at the Trident, along with my uncle and a great many Dornishmen."

"That is so, yes."

"This would have made Aerys' heir his grandson Aegon. My nephew."

"I regret to inform you that by my arrival at King's Landing, Aegon and his sister had been killed."

"And also their mother, it is said."

"And also their mother," confirmed Jon. "I'm sure you've been informed that I have brought the bones of your uncle and sister to be buried alongside their kin."

Doran nodded. "For this I am grateful." He frowned. "And yet, I believe that after Aegon the succession would pass to Rhaegar's brother Viserys. This is not the king you speak of."

"It is not."

"And who sits upon the Iron Throne?" hissed Oberyn, fingers tightening upon his spear.

"No one sits upon the Iron Throne." Jon folded his arms behind his back. "Robert Baratheon, first of his name, is now King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. The Iron Throne has been cut apart for scrap. It is his intention to forge armour from it to armour his guards."

"Robert is Viserys' cousin, as I recall. Yet I do not hear of Viserys' death, unless there has been a kinslaying unreported by my eyes and ears."

"Viserys was last reported upon Dragonstone. In light of his father's madness and very possibly a similar defect in Prince Rhaegar's mind, House Targaryen has been passed over in succession to the kingship. King Robert has agreed that if his cousin bows the knee then he may retain the lordship of Dragonstone as his grace's subject." And that had been a hard row with the Small Council. Robert had remained quiet although Jon suspected that he'd put the idea in Lord Estermont's ear first. In the end, the main advantage of the offer was that Viserys or his guardians were virtually certain not to accept it.

"It could be argued that with the removal of the Iron Throne, that there can be no single King over all of Westeros. And while your foster son may indeed, by virtue of your submission and that of Eddard Stark, be King of Andals and First Men, the Rhoynar are another matter." Doran sat back in his chair. "But where are my manners? Oberyn, please take the Prince some bread and salt. We can discuss matters further - at length - with you as my guest, Lord Arryn."

Could be worse, Jon thought, as Oberyn tore the loaf open and placed one end on a plate along with a handful of salt. At the least, even the wilder of the Martells would hesitate to poison me once I'm an acknowledged guest.

* * *

 

**Stannis II**

The banners of the Reach still reached for the sky between Storm's End and the Stormlands. But there was no feasting in their camp because behind them there were more banners, those of another army that sat astride the Reachmen's own supply line.

"They're caught now, Renly," Stannis assured his brother. More than a decade younger than his elder siblings, the boy had to stand on tip toes to look out over the battlements, but he wore a leather brigandine and clutched a long dagger that would serve in his defense in the absolute worst case. "Tyrell has no choice but to fight or surrender."

"Donal Noye said he might throw up field fort... fortified cautions."

"Fortifications. I only hope he's such a fool. He won't last a week if he tries that."

"Why's that, Stannis?"

Leaning on the battlements and looking at the Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Arryn and Tully banners of the second army, Stannis smiled coldly. "Because he has a hundred times as many men to feed as we do. And while they might have more food in their camp that we do, it's not a hundred times as much. His army will starve unless he breaks out or whoever commands over there lets supply wagons through."

"Can't he bring in more food with his ships, the way Master Davos did, or send men away on them?"

"If he sends men away then as soon as he's weakened their numbers enough, our allies out there will crush what remains, at least half his army gone. Bringing in food might work for a while, but it will take time to send the ships out and obtain that food. And again, they need far more than we do." He stepped back from the battlements. "And most of all, the Lannister banners means Tyrell must now worry that while his army is here that the Westerlands could have another army marching on Highgarden."

"So we've won?"

"Unless Tyrell manages to defeat that army in the next day or two, yes."

It was too late in the day for any serious fighting but Stannis kept torches burning to watch for any attempt at a night assault just in case.

The following morning, before a breakfast on salt fish and onions - the only food there was in the castle and even that was beginning to run low - one of the lookouts reported two riders at the gate. Stannis wordlessly put his plate in front of Renly and headed out, buckling his swordbelt around his waist in case matters went awry.

One of the men at the gate was familiar: Randyll Tarly, the lord who'd defeated Robert's army at Ashford. Mace Tyrell's chief general when the Lord Paramount of the Reach had the wit to pay attention to him - which was fortunately none too often. The hilt of his famous Valyrian greatsword jutted up from behind one shoulder.

Lions adorned the armour of the second man and he had the look of a Lannister, although not one of the few that Stannis had met. The two men had dismounted and the Lannister bowed once he saw Stannis' face at the door. "Prince Stannis?"

"Aye."

"I haven't had the privilege of meeting you, sir, but I am Ser Kevan Lannister. I have been permitted to cross the siegelines to inform you that Lord Tyrell has offered his surrender to my nephew."

Stannis considered the Lannister family. "Ser Jaime, that would be?"

"Aye." Ser Kevan glanced aside. "While the king appointed my nephew to lead the army here, he was quite clear that upon arrival the command was yours."

"And what terms does the lord of Highgarden seek? To bow the knee and return home otherwise unscathed by this war?"

Tarly grunted. "Aye. I hear you offered as much to him."

"Then he reports poorly."

Kevan pulled a letter out of his belt pouch. "If I may, sir, I have a letter from your brother."

He nodded and the Lannister carefully slid the correspondence through the door, careful not to crack the wax seal. Examining the seal, Stannis recognised the imprint as being from Robert's ring. If the ring was now in the wrong hands, then things would be dire enough. It seemed unlikely to be the case given the past ravens. Which had been eaten on arrival, much to the Maester's dismay.

The seal cracked easily and Stannis felt his eyebrows climb as he read the contents. It was Robert's hand, sure enough. He looked up. "Lord Randyll, Ser Kevan. My brother has spelled out the following terms to be offered to Lord Tyrell if he does not surrender before the arrival of Ser Jaime's army."

"Lord Tyrell, his family and his lords and his armies must pledge allegience to King Robert and submit themselves fully to his authority. Thereupon they shall be permitted to return home without further consequence or blame saving only the following exceptions."

"Firstly that all lords and knights holding lands east of but not including the towns of Bitterbridge, Longtable and Ashford and also south of the Mander River shall be relieved of all oaths and obligations of vassalage to Lord Tyrell of the Reach."

"Secondly that these lords and knights of the first part shall swear vassalage unto Prince Stannis Baratheon, who shall hold these lands as part of the Stormlands in direct vassalage to King Robert Baratheon."

"Thirdly that those lands within the aforesaid region formerly held by the Merryweathers of Longtable are remanded to Prince Stannis as his seat and residence within the Grassy March, as it shall henceforce be known."

"Fourthly that the remainder of the Merryweather holdings are restored to Lord Owen Merryweather, whose exile is hereby lifted."

"Fifthly," Stannis glanced at Tarly and saw a muscle jump in his jaw before he nodded.

"Say on, Prince Stannis."

"Fifthly, Lord Mace Tyrell is deprived the position of Warden of the South. The title, with attendent responsibilities and revenues, is hereby conferred upon Lord Randyll Tarly for his lifetime, said title to revert to the Lord Paramount of the Reach upon the death of Lord Randyll."

Lord Tarly went red, then white. His mouth flapped open.

Stannis paused to let that slap to the face of Mace Tyrell sink in and then added. "If Lord Tyrell feels this is unbearable, then please remind him, in my brother's words, that he has a second brother and would be only too pleased to endow him also at the expense of the Reach."


	3. Chapter 3

**Ned III**

To the end of his days, Ned would never be sure if he'd have been able to reason with the three former Kingsguard. It was a moot point: the moment he saw Ser Barristan was in the party, Ser Gerold Hightower's sword was out of its scabbard.

From there the matter was out of Ned's hands: it was all he could do to keep Ser Oswell's sword out of him as the three knights attacked his own party. Outnumbered almost three to one they shouldn't have stood a chance but these were the greatest knights of the south and they showed it.

Theo Wull was the first to fall, and then Ned caught a glimpse of Ethan Glover - who had survived so long in the dungeons of King's Landing - on the ground with his mail split by a blow from Dawn.

With a cry, Martyn Cassell reeled backwards, clutching at the stump of his sword arm and then Ned was facing Oswell Whent alone and the riverlander was grim-faced as he caught Ice on his shield and turned it aside.

Behind him, Ser Gerold seemed to stumble and Barristan's sword licked out with deadly effect. Witnessing this distracted Ned and his misjudged a parry, not quite turning aside Oswell's sword before it cut through his boot and into the calf.

Forcing himself upright, Ned was almost reconciled to death when Howland Reed leapt up onto the knight's back, a long dagger in his hand. The sudden onset of battle was such that none of them wore helms and the crannogman dragged the blade beneath the kingsguard's jaw.

Ned gasped for breath and staggered, almost falling as he took in the situation. Only three men still stood: himself, Howland and Ser Barristan. For a moment he feared that that was all that lived, but William Dustin forced himself up to his knees and over the thundering of his own breath Ned realised he could hear the sound of Martyn Cassel weeping in frustration as he tried to stem the blood from the stump of his arm.

"Gods."

Ser Barristan looked at Howland as if about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead he strode to William and helped him to his feet. Even he gasped as the lord of Barrowton's face came into view, a bloody ruin.

For his part, Ned limped over to Martyn and unbuckled the wounded man's swordbelt. "Hold it steady," he directed Howland and then drew the belt tight around the stump. The sworn-sword gritted his teeth to keep from screaming as Ned tightened the binding until the blood stopped.

"I think Arthur may live," Barristan observed, looking over at the fallen man that had once been a brother to him. "I struck with the flat of my blade."

"That's taking a risk," Howland mumbled.

"You are correct, Lord Reed. However, it would be awkward to have killed him when I hope to ask for his sister's hand."

Ned stumbled and not just due to the pain of his calf. "His sister's hand?"

The look on the middle-aged knight's face was almost... was he embarassed!? "I realise I would have little to offer Ashara... I have no lands of my own, nor any prospect of them. But if I had not been in the Kingsguard, I would have asked her to dance at Harrenhal."

"By all the gods..."

Barristan looked slightly hurt. "I appreciate that I may be being an old fool but..."

"No, no." Ned straightened. "If she says yes, I will find you land in the North, Ser Barristan."

"That is most gracious of you, Lord Stark!"

"Now if you don't mind, there's another lady I'm concerned about."

Leaving Martyn and William in each other's care for the moment, the other three men walked to the tower's door.

* * *

 

**Jon III**

Jon considered it a positive sign that the Martells were warming to Robert's reign when he was invited to meet with Doran again, this time at the Water Gardens. Oberyn Martell led his escort, which was less welcoming, but the man stuck to polite topics of conversation.

There were children playing in the gardens, amid and sometimes (being children) in the ponds. Prince Doran sat in a wicker chair on one of the terraces, looking out over a broad pond with two fountains in the centre. Each of the fountains was built into a statue, one a man and the other a woman. The man's left hand was outstretched and clasped the right hand of woman.

"Maron Martell," Oberyn informed Jon quietly. "And his bride Daenerys Targaryen."

"Their marriage ended centuries of conflict between Martells and Targaryens," Jon remembered outloud and he saw Oberyn's eye twitch as the guarded reminder of blood ties between those houses was parried with a reminder of the even older bloodshed between them.

"Prince Jon, greetings." Doran rose to greet them. "Brother, thank you for escorting our guest."

The younger brother bowed slightly and took a place behind Doran's chair as the prince sat himself.

"I understand that Mace Tyrell has cause to regret not accepting your King's first offer of reconciliation."

Jon bowed his head slightly. That had been well done, he thought.

"Should I assume that if you are sent back to King's Landing without my submission that the next offer I receive will have similarly stringent terms? Claim Wyl for your King, perhaps?"

"Rather than territorial concessions, my understanding is that Robert has considered that you might show good faith by letting him arrange your brother's marriage. Since the Westerlands cost Dorne one daughter, you might say."

"You - !"

Doran cut off his brother with an upraised hand. "I would hope my word would be sufficient sign of good faith."

Jon smiled blandly.

After a moment the Dornishmen relaxed. "I think a Lannister-Martell marriage is not what the realm needs. What it does need, after King Aerys... eccentricities... is a just King." Doran leant forwards. "The Starks demanded justice and received it. If we can receive the same then King Robert can expect my submission."

"Justice, yes. Revenge, on the other hand, is not something a King can gift."

"Well said." Doran clapped his hands once. "Well said. I imagine that you will need to communicate with your King on this matter. However, in the meantime I must enquire in my capacity as Prince of Dorne regarding the stability of the new dynasty."

"You have concerns?" asked Jon cautiously.

"Long term concerns, shall we say?"

"Ah. Marriage."

"Indeed. Robert has two brothers of course, but none of them are wed and only Robert is known to have sired children... although not as enthusiastically as my brother I must confess. While having brothers is well, one must give thought to the next generation."

Jon nodded. "Quite correct. Renly is perhaps a little young to think too far ahead as yet, around your own daughter's age although perhaps such a marriage would not be judicious."

"Royal marriages haven't always been fortunate of late."

"Indeed they have not. And Robert has indicated he would know the circumstances of Lyanna Stark before deciding upon his marriage."

"One hopes for the best for her, but with no news for long..."

Jon saw Oberyn's smirk at Doran's words and felt his temper rise. "It is said by some that Prince Rhaegar brought her to Dorne."

"Is it?" Doran closed his fingers around the arms of his chair. "Look into that, Oberyn. Your affinity for finding women may have some use at last."

"Not only women, my prince." Oberyn sauntered out insouciantly.

"We can be hot-tempered here in Dorne," Doran said half-apologetically. "The climate perhaps. And you did not mention Prince Stannis' prospects. Perhaps he will be seeking a Lannister marriage? Hoster Tully has no more daughters to promote the interests, I gather."

"That could be possible, although I have several nieces of my own." Which wasn't a bad idea, Jon thought. He'd been wed before after all, and if Lysa was no better fortuned then having the King's brother as regent to a grand-nephew would be a strong assurance for the future.

* * *

  
**Tywin III**

He found Robert in the training yard, sweating in a weighted hauberk and battering at a heavy wooden mannequin with a hammer that must have weighed twice as much as the King's usual weapon. A page wearing a Baratheon tabard was calling out the hit and where they struck.

There were a score of other knights training but even if Robert's height hadn't identified him, the presence of Jorah Mormont would have been evidence. The first of Robert's Royal Guards wore a white tabard with a crowned stag upon in. Rather than the plate of a knight he wore northern mail, but there was a heavy shield strapped to one arm, broad enough that he could use it to cover the King if need be.

Normally Tywin would have said there were more productive uses of his time than waiting for the king and as Hand that might be true. However, Jon Arryn would return in a few months and then Tywin would be leaving King's Landing behind him. With surprisingly few regrets: he had what he wanted from the place and there was no one, not even Kevan, who could teach Jaime what he needed to know for when he was Lord. And once he was gone, knowing the King's mind would be vital.

Robert removed his helm once he was done with the mannequin and accepted a water bucket from the page, pouring the contents over his head. He raked thick black hair back from his face before turning on some subtle signal - from Mormont, the man is no fool - and seeing Tywin.

A few moments later, hauberk loosened but not removed and Robert stands beside his Hand on the terrace overlooking the yard, drying his face with a towel. Another thing that Tywin hadn't expected: the Stormlander was fastiduous about staying clean. It was said he bathed every night - another welcome change. Aerys had given up bathing after a fit of paranoia that a servant had been planning to drown him in the tub.

"News from the south?" he asked.

Tywin nodded. "Much as expected. Reading between the lines, the Martells want blood for the death of their sister."

"And Ned?"

"No news of Lord Stark." Which left the King's marriage plans inconveniently undefined.

"Hmm." Robert looked away for a moment. "Tell me, Lord Tywin, if questioned would Amory Lorch or Gregor Clegane reveal that they acted on your orders."

"Neither man is known for their wit. Nor Clegane for his self-control."

"I'm given to understand that Lorch stabbed Rhaenys. Repeatedly, it appears."

"Yes. Clegane killed the young prince and his mother."

Robert scratched his chin. "And raped her too, it is rumoured. A very blunt instrument. Although I imagine you can find the like again."

"You intend to give the Dornish what they want?" The idea galled Tywin - he'd cleared the way for Robert to take the throne and now more was being demanded of him.

"What exactly did they ask for?"

"Justice."

"Hmm." The king lowered his voice. "If I ground all of Westeros to a fine powder, how many grains of justice do you think might be found. Justice is a dream men have. But such dreams have their place, my lord Hand, for the same could be said of chivalry, of lordship. Even of kings. So if they want justice, they will have it. "

"Or the illusion of it." Tywin's own voice is no louder.

"Lorch's testimony should be sufficient to condemn Clegane for the deed. Complicity is a lesser crime, Lorch we can send to the Wall to cool his blood."

"And if Ser Gregor calls for a trial by combat?"

"That is why Lord Bolton has provided the City Watch with crossbows." Robert's lips curled up with distaste. "If we could count on him to keep his mouth shut I might be able to send him north but things are as they are."

"They are," agreed Tywin and raised his voice back to normal levels - those that might be overheard by the nearest knights. "I must advise you that once Prince Jon returns from Dorne, as seems likely, that I will need to return to Casterly Rock. My son's education in matters of rule has been sadly neglected while he was in King's Landing."

"Indeed, we must all give thoughts to the future. Your help is invaluable, Lord Tywin. And I am sure that with you and Ser Jaime that the Westerlands will remain as secure as the North or the Eyrie." The king winked slightly and then, in a low tone added: "One cannot promote a son above his father, but Ser Jaime has a princely bearing so he must have learned some lessons well."

Mentally Tywin noted that it was a point in Robert's favour that he took that debt seriously.

* * *

 

**Stannis III**

The first thing Renly said to Robert was that King's Landing smelt like a cesspit. Their brother blinked, laughed and told Renly he'd noticed the same thing before going on to congratulate Stannis for things that were merely his duty. As if he hadn't expected as much from him.

The throne room was large and echoing with no Iron Throne on the dais. The dragonbones had also been removed, Stannis knew not where to. Banners had been hung from the walls, the Baratheon stag behind the dais but along the walls marched wolves, falcons, trout, squid, lions and even roses now.

The celebrations were loud and tedious and Stannis was impatient for the whole mess to be over so he could go back to Storm's End with Renly. The boy was enchanted with the thought of a new wardrobe but there was a great deal still to do.

"What do you mean we're not going back to Storm's End!?"

Robert should have exploded back at him but the king didn't. It gave Stannis a creeping feeling, looking at his brother. The war had changed him too, but not so much.

"You're hardly barred from Storm's End, Stannis. It's our home. But we both have responsibilities and I'm not so careless as to send Renly away alone."

He'd hardly be alone but Robert had a point there. "He'll hate it here, you know what it smells like."

"A pit of scum and villany. The scent is more honest than the view." Robert drained his cup and refilled it, pushing the flagon over to Stannis without being asked. "At least you'll get away from time to time. I have to live here."

"My new lands, you mean."

"Those too. You're my heir. You're also one of the few men I know who are both competent and loyal."

"Another duty, then?"

"It's the reward for a job well done. Lyonel Corbray isn't working out as Master of Ships but I can't dismiss him just yet. Officially you're going to be his understudy, I want all the councillors to have one or two. Unofficially, you'll be taking charge of the fleet for Dragonstone."

"The Targaryens?"

"Managing a fleet isn't the same as handling an army." Robert belched, looked startled and then chuckled. "It takes attention to detail and a great deal of rigor. Besides, you have that smuggler you knighted, what's his name?"

"Davos Seaworth." Somehow he didn't think Robert had really forgotten.

"Him, yes. A useful man. Once we have Dragonstone I'd like you to understudy Lord Estermont. You have an eye for justice, he can teach you a lot."

"Do you want me to be Master of Ships or Master of Laws?"

"Whichever the situation calls for." He put his goblet down with a thump. "If I slip on the stairs tomorrow, you'll be king. I'm probably going to be bloody awful at the job, but at least I can get you trained up to be better if it comes to that. And if it doesn't there'll be an able lord on the marchlands between the Stormlands and the Reach."

Stannis nods sharply. "And Renly?"

"He's young yet."

"Not too young to plan."

"Very well. Summerhall. And possibly a marriage to the Martells if things look well for it in ten years or so."

"Do you have me wed off too?" spat Stannis, uncertain if he was more angry because Robert seemed less angry.

"What do you want of me, Stannis!?" burst out Robert. He leant forwards. "It's not bloody easy being King."

"Why not crawl back into an ale barrel with some whores then?"

"Tried that, it didn't work." The offhand reply stunned Stannis long enough for Robert to add: "Or are you mad that you're not the only responsible one anymore?"

For a long moment the brothers stared at each other, teeth grinding. Stannis pushed his chair back. "Excuse me, your grace."

"You are excused." Robert waited until Stannis had almost reached the door before adding. "And Stannis... not one man in ten thousand could have stood siege at Storm's End."

The door slammed behind Stannis and he leant against the opposite wall, pressing his face against the wall. Years ago Robert had left Storm's End and never once looked back at his brothers. I should take Renly now and see how he likes it, he thought, knowing he would not.


	4. Chapter 4

**Jon IV**

King's Landing was quieter than he remembered it. The goldcloaks were no longer in evidence but there were men on the walls and he could see that several of the siege weapons had been removed, a few replaced with newer catapults, scorpions and other devices.

At the docks and on the streets men in tabards of undyed cloth were in evidence. A small party of them greeted Jon's ship and he saw that each wore a bronze batch on their shoulder: a circle around a tower, which he guessed was supposed to represent the city.

Once he identified himself a runner was sent to the nearest gatehouse and two more of the men fell in with his own party while the others inspected the ship for contraband - or jars of wildfire.

"It's not that we suspect you of anything, your grace," the leader of the party said apologetically. "But Lord Bolton ordered every ship inspected and that the King said that if even a Prince's ship was inspected then no lord or foreign merchant would have cause to complain."

"A shrewd move. And truly, we should take no chances of wildfire in the docks." Jon shuddered at the thought. King's Landing was the greatest port on the eastern shores, larger than Gulltown or White Harbour. One jar of wildfire in the right place could start an inferno all long this bank of the Blackwater Rush.

At the gate there were more guards, hardbitten men armed with poleaxes. The city inside the wall appeared to be recovering well from the sack, although the area between the docks and the Red Keep hadn't been particularly hard hit so Jon supposed it might be less so in the western districts of King's Landing.

Robert was waiting for him at the gates of the Red Keep and greeted him with a fierce embrace that made Jon's ribs creak and cut him off in mid "Your grace."

"None of that formality between us, Jon. You've brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms - even if you weren't like a second father to me I'd owe you for that."

Jon coughed and caught his breath. "It was my pleasure, Robert. I see you've been busy here."

"Gods, yes. The records are a mess. I've had to go through the army for anyone who can read and write and draft them as clerks to get things under control." He gestured to the Maidenvault, from which a stream of men were coming and going carrying stacks of paper. "I did have a clever idea though. I want you to see this."

With a small prayer to the Gods that Robert hadn't hit on something catastrophic with an excess of enthusiasm, Jon followed him and saw that the main room of the building was now taken up with several complicated devices tended by at least a dozen men with ink-stained fingers.

"Here." Robert snapped his fingers and then snatched a sheet of paper from the top of a stack, handing it to Jon. The sheet was marked out with lines and words, although most of it was blank. "It's for our records, Jon. I wanted to know just how much all the lords of the Crownlands had, but the Targaryen's records are mostly stack of letters with each Lord reporting what they think the King should know about their lands... and probably undervaluing some things to keep their taxes low."

"Ah." Jon realised that each section of the paper was for filling in one detail about a lord's holdings. "So you want them all to fill these out?"

"Exactly! And then with one quick look I can compare any two lords from Duskendale down to Greenstone and know exactly how many villages there are in their lands - or how many mills or how many armsmen they can call on. Tywin thought it was a great idea."

"He said so, did he?"

Robert grinned and tugged on his hair. "Well, he said it 'might be useful' and changed the subject, but that's just his way."

"And these devices..." Jon studied them. "Ah, like a seal. They stamp the form on the paper so it's the same every time."

"Precisely. I could lay two of these forms on top of each other and every field would be precisely aligned so we'll always know where to look for a piece of information. If we have the lords fill these out once a year - or every winter at least - then we'll have a good idea not just of what state the lands are in but of whether a lord is doing better or worse than usual."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd need this many forms though. Or so many clerks."

"Ah." Robert clapped his hands. "I've got them going back through the records too. We might not have a complete picture for the past but we can record what we do have and at least get some idea of what's happened before."

Jon scratched his chin. "Lord Tywin is right. That could be useful. It's going to take a while to be useful though, and your lords may not be happy about such an accounting."

"Well I have to be fair, Jon. I need the crownlanders to fill these out so I know what I rule now - personally, not just as King. And it just makes sense to do the same for Storm's End." He put his hands on his hips. "And if I have to do the bloody paperwork then so does every lord in the Easterlands."

"Easterlands?"

"It's easier than saying Crownlands and Stormlands."

"That won't make the lords happy either."

"Nothing will make them all happy, Jon. But it's better than calling them all Stormlanders or Crownlanders..."

* * *

 

**Ned IV**

The inn was around a day’s ride from King’s Landing. There had been a rich trade in catering to travellers along the major roads and now that order was returning it was flourishing once more.

The evening of the day after he sent William Dustin and Martyn Cassell ahead, Ned kept an eye on the common room of the inn to see who came back. He hoped that Lyanna would be alright up in the room he was paying for alone, but few things would draw attention more than whoever Robert sent having to ask for him.

The sellswords who swaggered in shortly almost didn’t catch his eye. Only a familiar line of face told him that the smaller of the two was Jorah Mormont. Then, looking closer at Jorah’s companion he saw that it was Robert: beard shaven, hair drawn back and apparently greying. Rather than his famous hammer, he carried a poleaxe and Jorah had the same. Bronze badges on their chests had what could be a seven-pointed star or could be a tree, depending on how one looked at it.

“Spare us this end of the table,” Jorah more ordered than asked Ned – it was a little bit of a shock not being addressed like a lord, much less Lord Paramount or now Prince of the North. Still, he wasn’t exactly dressed the part of a lord himself. Stripped of the dire wolf badges on his shirt and wearing an older cloak over his mail he looked like a sellsword.

Robert himself carried over a platter with two large mugs of ale and a platter of bread, fruit and cheese. He swung one chair around and leant forwards over its back. “Glad to see you made it north again. Southlands aren’t always healthy.”

“I lost some good friends there.”

“Aye, haven’t we all the last few years?” Robert tilted back the mug but for all the loud slurping noise, when he lowered it the level of the ale had barely charged. “Are you not going to King’s Landing?” He tapped the badge on his chest. “The King has a place for good men. It’s a safer birth than drifting the roads.”

“I’ve my sister with me,” Ned said and saw Robert’s eyes light up. He raised his own hand. “She’s not well, Rob. I’m taking her home with me. There’ll be a company going north, I hear.”

“The Northern army is marching home in a few days. It’ll be safe enough,” agreed Robert slowly. “I’d heard though, she was to wed...”

“That’s not going to happen, she says.”

Blue eyes met grey, bright southern to intractable north.

“The scoundrel probably wasn’t worthy of her. A fine woman, your sister.” Robert took another apparently large gulp out of his ale. “D’ you think she’d mind if I paid my respects? Just my respects, you understand.”

Ned thought a moment and then nodded. “I think that she wouldn’t mind.”

Robert came to his feet and when Jorah started to do the same he planted one hand on the Mormont’s shoulder. “Mind my ale and don’t drink any yourself,” he joked.

The room Ned was renting wasn’t the largest but it was the nearest to the chimney and thus the warmest. Ned paused at the door. “Robert,” he said in a low voice. “You’re like a brother to me, but I want your promise you won’t do anything rash.”

“I’d think you should ask me that because we’re like brothers, not in spite of it. I knew Brandon, after all.” He saw that Ned wasn’t amused and sighed. “My best behaviour, I promise.”

Ned knocked gently. “Lya, it’s Ned. Rob wants to speak to you.”

The door opened a crack and he saw a wide grey eye. Lyanna’s. She saw Robert and the eye widened more. “You look old.”

Robert rubbed at one of the grey streaks with his fingers and they came away stained. “That’s the idea.”

Slowly the door opened wider. “Come in.” She stepped back, keeping the door between her and Robert. Ned gestured for his friend to enter. This could be bad, if Robert reacted poorly...

His foster brother entered the room confidently but as he went past the arc of the door and it couldn’t mask Lyanna any further, he froze. “Oh Lyanna,” he said sadly. There was none of the fury that Ned had feared. Instead he half-turned and beckoned for Ned to enter the chamber.

Lyanna closed the door and stood before them, her eyes fixed now on the floor – or as much as she could see of it past her belly.

Robert reached out to her chin and raised it so that she met his eyes. “You don’t have to fear me,” he promised. “Nor does your child.”

“Even if he’s a dragonspawn?”

Robert winced but he didn’t look away. “Even so.”

“I can’t marry you, Robert. Not now.”

“You could.” He reached out and took her hand. “But I don’t insist on it. You’ve had enough, I think, of being told what you must do. Let it be your choice, and his or hers.”

“Then I choose the North.”

Robert sighed heavily. “Thus, then.” He raised her hand slightly and then released it, drawing Lyanna against him in a careful hug. She squeaked in indignation as he kissed her noisily on the cheek. “Then at least call on me if you need me. As you would a brother.”

The moment was broken by a wail from the corner of the room. Robert’s eyes snapped to the small crib. “Ned!” he exclaimed.

Ned was sure his ears had gone entirely crimson.

* * *

  
**Tywin IV**

Tywin found the King in the same chamber, indeed the same chair, that he'd been in when he offered the post of Hand. The room was darker though, no light except for that cast by the fire. Robert was more shadow than man, looming and brooding with legs thrust out and his hand wrapped around a tankard.

"Your grace."

Robert turned his head. "Aye. Lord Lannister. Pray take a seat."

Tywin obeyed. "Is there some reason that the King of Seven Kingdoms sits in the dark?"

"My mood is dark. Is that not cause enough."

"Ill news of the Lady Lyanna?"

His head turned back towards the flames. "Some good, some ill. She lives but will not wed."

"House Stark has broken off the betrothal?" A strange choice, but they were a strange folk in the North. Still, with a Stark as queen they would have been a powerful threat.

"I have consented, of course. I do not believe rape is the mark of a good man, still less a good king."

"That is wise, although I understand your sorrow." Would it be too soon to raise the matter of alternate brides. If he was Hand, no, but since Jon Arryn now bore that office...

"And yet a king must wed for the stability of the Seven Kingdoms. Duty. It is a heavy word, Lord Tywin. May I have your counsel?"

Tywin nodded. "Of course, your grace."

"I should not marry into the household of a Lord Paramount, I think. On the one hand it would leave them the impression they were second-best to the Starks. One does not tread lightly upon the pride of princes, in my limited experience. On the other, it would give the impression that the House I wed would have undue influence upon my judgements - and a king who is too obviously partial is a king who breeds discontent."

Damn. "Those are reasonable arguements, although it may also be said that wedding a House would also secure that House's support for the future. Aerys' grandfather understood that and had his children not undermined him..."

"We would not be here, no. And I would likely not have been born. My brothers may wed into princely Houses, perhaps. But I am surrounded by Crownlanders who fought for the Targaryens and to heal those wounds I should wed near to this city."

"I see your mind is made up, your grace."

"I suppose that it is." He leant forwards, face now lit by the fire. "You know these Houses well, do you not? I should prefer to wed a woman whose house is known for some fecundity, but I do not wish to have too many goodbrothers - we have enough factions."

"The Rykker's are a small house, but they were recently raised to Duskendale and lack stature. The Stokeworths have two daughters of suitable age but one is a shrew and the other dull. I do not commend them as queens." He frowned. "They have considerable lands near to the city though. Adding them to the crown estates would be of value."

"As do the... Rosbys, do they not? Not known to be robust, I don't think Lord Gyles has an heir."

"Not of his body. The Stokeworths would have a claim on those, they have interwed often. And the Freys are kin by marriage."

"Walder's sixth wife?"

"Aye."

"Gods. We should all be so vigorous at his years."

"I would not commend the Crackclaw Point houses, they are all too small and their loyalty to Prince Rhaegar too close. The Celtigars are wealthy but would want you to confirm them as overlords of Crackclaw Point and you would need to fight another war to enforce that. And the other houses sworn to Dragonstone have not yet bowed the knee so I cannot commend the Velaryons or House Sunglass."

"Aye, Velaryon blood would count for much but they have missed that chance."

Tywin shook his head. "There are few candidates in fact. The Farrings have a daughter of suitable age although I gather the Freys..."

"Again? I might be doing the girl a favour."

Tywin paused. "There is... you may recall that Lord Qarlton Chelsted was among King Aerys' Hands during the war."

"Aye. Burned to death, was he not?"

"Quite. There would be some merit to a match with the Chelsteds - they have no cause to love the Targaryens now but they were loyal until then."

"Had he a daughter?"

"Lord Qarlton was not wed, but there is a sister. Much courted now. I confess I do not recall her nature."

Robert nodded. "Aye. Well, I shall have Jon find out. And see about the Stokeworth girls and this Farring too. It is a place to start, and I thank you."

Tywin nodded silently.

"On the matter of marriages..." Robert hesitated and rubbed his chin. "Hmm. Well, I know not how well your daugter and my brother would get on. They are both strong-willed. Have you considered that Prince Eddard has a younger brother? He can certainly grant young Benjen broad lands and a Lannister bride would presumably dower him suitably to establish himself."

"Would you support such a match?"

"I would not dictate it, but it seems to me that it would be better for all the great lords of the realm to have both heirs and spares."

Tywin rose. "It is a prospect to consider, your grace." And it would give the Lannisters a route into the marital alliances between Stark, Tully and Arryns. Hmm. And Jon Arryn had nieces and as yet no son by any wife including the latest. Something to consider for Jaime.

* * *

 

**Stannis IV**

"Damn Lyonel Corbray!" shouted Stannis as he took in what was left of the royal fleet. His brother's royal fleet, that was.

The Master of Ships had insisted on taking charge of the fleet and in launching the assault before Stannis was ready. A week longer and there would have been four more wargalleys and ten more transports.

Then again, as it worked out that would have meant fourteen more ships caught in the night storm that had scattered the fleet and sunk at least three ships. One of them had been a three hundred oar galley mich like his flagship the Fury.

"No one could have expected a storm like last night, my lord." Davos Seaworth stood on the poop deck of the Fury alongside Stannis.

"You should always expect a storm at sea," Stannis chided the older man. "One like it killed my parents. I watched it from the towers of Storm's End."

The former smuggler shifted uneasily. "Well it's passed now. Should we assemble the ships we can see and make for King's Landing?"

"No." He gripped the rail and stared out. Four other ships in sight, out of more than forty. Probably not all the others were sunk. "We came here to take Dragonstone and that's what we'll do!"

"With five ships!?"

Davos reached up for the small bag hung around his neck. "Get back to work, Gregor," he ordered the ship's sailing master. "The storm hit us from the north. It likely did the same to Dragonstone and while we could run south ahead of it, ships in harbour couldn't. There's a good chance that they're even worse off than we are."

"That's my thinking. You kept us at the head of the fleet so most of the others afloat will be north of us anyway - we've a good chance of finding them as we sweep up on Dragonstone."

It was a long, slow day as they slogged north. The end of the storm had left little or no wind behind it and so the Fury and her little squadron made what sail they could and the men rowed in shifts. By the time the sun set there were seven ships in total, but others had been seen upon the northern horizon.

They didn't include Lord Corbray's flagship.

"The Valorous broached!" called across the captain of the cog Windraker. Her captain was known to Davos for reasons Stannis was assured were entirely honest. "I saw it myself. There couldn't have been a survivor."

"It seems that you're in command of the fleet now, my lord."

Stannis nodded grimly. "Aye. And we'll see Dragonstone on the morrow."

They saw the island, as well as five more of their ships. Five of theirs and one cog that flew the blazon of the Targaryens from its mast.

"Take them," Stannis ordered sharply and under Davos direct the ships of House Baratheon spread out and took the stiffening wind in their sails. Had it only been the seven with Stannis they might have made it but two of those seen at night were to their east and the wind forced the fugitive vessel towards them.

One, two and then a third of the ships grappled.

Davos stared through an eyeglass and then passed it to Stannis. "See their poop deck, my lord. I know not the colours but there's a lad there with hair pale enough to be Targaryen."

It took the young lord but a moment to make his assessment. "Aye, and those are Darry colours on the man with him."

"Darry?"

"Ser Willem Darry was master-at-arms for the Red Keep. He went to Dragonstone with Queen Rhaella." Stannis swore without heat. "That must be Viserys. And we have him!"

They were close enough to no longer need the eye-glass to watch as sailors and men swarmed across the ship. The boy with white hair drew a long knife, but one of the Baratheon men had brought a fishing net across from his ship and flung it across the boy. Tangled and kicking, he was borne down and a moment later the knight in brown and black fell at his side, crimson now joining his colours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Jon V**

Lomas Estermont had probably expected a meeting with Robert about the laws of the land to be more drinking session than a serious discussion. Jon had to remind himself that this was most likely the reason the man seemed unprepared.

"I couldn't tell you exactly," he responded to Robert's question. "I wouldn't anticipate many changes, however. King Jaeherys was famously wise, after all, so who would presume to amend his laws?"

"Practically everyone," observed the King. "And the codified laws aren't necessarily on hand in every keep."

"Well, books are expensive and I'd imagine you know how hard it is to get a boy to learn his letters."

"I recall, yes." The king sighed and pushed the wine flagon across the table to Lomas. "One of the lads printing off forms for our records had a bright idea. Instead of a single stamp he thinks we can assemble a page out of letters locked into a tray of some kind.... well, I don't quite follow, but in any case, with a little time and not needing to make a new stamp we can print different pages and eventually entire books."

Jon hissed. "Oh the septons will hate that. Their copyists make them a great deal of money and if books can be made easily and cheaply..."

"And do they pay taxes on that?" asked Robert mildly. "No, I didn't think so. A tax on these page stampers or whatever they get called should reduce the margin they get undercut on and it'll add a nice little trickle of revenue to the treasury."

"I see your mind's made up?"

"As I recall, the Smith is one of the Seven-That-Are-One. That sounds to me as if being creative and industrious is down-right pious."

Lomas rolled his eyes. "I suppose then, that you'll be circulating this updated laws of the realm as widely as you can?"

"There's no point in there being laws if the men of Westeros don't know of them so they can abide by them - and their lords know to enforce them." Robert grinned at his Master of Laws. "If we do a good job of this, your name may be revered as much as King Jaeherys' was."

"I hardly think that that's likely."

There was a knock at the door and a servant opened it. "Your grace, Lord Bolton requests an audience."

Robert pushed his chair back. "Send him in."

The northerner entered and bowed coolly before sweeping the room with those pale eyes of his. "Your grace, I see I have arrived before the Spider."

"Varys? Why would he be coming here?"

"I would assume the Master of Whispers would think you ought be informed that one of Lord Corbray's fleet has returned to King's Landing. I have placed guards around the dock but no doubt rumours are already sweeping the city."

The king's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What news do you have, Lord Bolton?"

"It seems the fleet was scattered by a ferocious storm some nights ago. Quite a number of the ships were sunk and others took damage that forced them to ports along the south of Blackwater Bay."

Lomas gasped. "Lord Stannis? Lord Lyonel?"

"They have not been heard from, Lord Estermont."

"Your grace, this is -"

Robert raised his hand calmly. "This is merely the first news. I will not be panicked by the report of one captain. Lord Bolton, I take it you will have no difficulty bringing him here to report in person?"

"None, your grace. He is currently in one of the antechambers, under guard."

"If the fleet has been smashed, then..."

"Then we have faced a reverse, but no more than that." Robert rose. "King's Landing is well defended and since not all the ships being prepared were taken by Lord Corbray, we have the seeds of a second fleet if need be. I will inform Renly - no doubt some courtier will want to drop hints to scare him so it is best he know the truth now - and then the two of us will meet with the captain."

He turned to Bolton. "I believe King's Landing has a Seneschal who can keep the smallfolk quiet whatever rumours circulate the inns. Am I wrong."

Bolton bowed again. "My men have been suitably instructed."

"Admirable. We will continue this conversation later, uncle Lomas, once you have had time to consider the proposal more fully."

* * *

 

**Stannis V**

The crowds that flocked to the docks and cheered the royal fleet on its return from Dragonstone was unbelievable. Stannis had heard that there were half a million people in King's Landing (and according to Robert, about half that many actual souls). At first glance he thought that every last one of them was on the docks or the walls above.

On second glance, it was only about the size of the Reach army that had besieged Storm's End, which was probably about one tenth of the city's population.

"What do they think they're doing?" he snarled. "We can't dock like this!"

"I think they're hailing you as a hero," Ser Davos replied cheerfully. "We can anchor off the docks until things calm down. Why not give them wave?"

Stannis shot him an infuriated look.

"Oh, there's the King."

"What?" He scanned the docks but could see nothing but small folk, barely kept in check by the combined efforts of the City Watch and the King's Men.

Davos took him by the elbow and turned him to look up the Blackwater Rush where a ferryboat, evidently hastily decked out with Baratheon banners. Then, while Stannis stared at his brother standing - posed heroically in fact - upon the foredeck of the ferry, Davos pulled Stannis' hand up into a wave to the crowd.

A wall of sound hammered the ships. Stannis was surprised they weren't pushed against the opposite shore. "Dammit, Seaworth."

"I'm terribly sorry, my lord. My hand slipped."

Stannis ground his teeth.

A few minutes later and Robert's ferry was alongside the Fury. The first head above the side of the galley was Renly's though - the boy was perched on Robert's broadshoulders. "Stannis!" he shouted as he saw his brother. "Stannis, look at me, I'm the tallest man in the world!"

Stannis snatched Renly before Robert was on deck. "Don't do that!" he hissed. "If you slipped you'd be caught between the boats."

"Did you want me to have him climb on his own?" asked Robert. He offered his hand to Stannis and the man reluctantly took it.

There were more cheers from the shore at the sight of the brothers reunited.

"Did you win?" asked Renly, seizing hold of Stannis' other hand. From the looks of it he wasn't planning to let go any time soon.

"Of course I did."

Robert nodded. "I won't deny I was a little worried when I heard about the storm. Not that I doubted you particularly but... you know."

For a moment Stannis was taken back to another moment, he and Robert watching a ship founder in sight of the shore, caught in one of the storms their home was named for and sinking along with two people infinitely precious to them. "Yes. How many made it back?"

"Between those here and those scattered across the southern side of the bay and making repairs? Fifteen."

"Then unless some of them are halfway to Essos we lost a third of the fleet."

Robert nodded grimly. A dozen ships and more than two thousand men dead. The Battle of the Trident had been barely more bloody. "How the Ironborn worship drowning I shall never know. No sign of the Valorous?"

"It sank."

"Gods. I shouldn't have let Corbray overrule you."

Stannis grimaced. "He wasn't entirely wrong. We caught the Targaryens on a ship leaving Dragonstone. A day later and they'd have escaped."

"Rhaella and Viserys? Good work." Robert beamed, good mood apparently restored by this news, and smacked Stannis so hard on the shoulder he almost staggered. "Did the rest give you a problem?"

"After the same storm dashed their ships apart they couldn't surrender fast enough. And Rhaella died in child birth that night. She bore Aerys a last daughter so it's she and Viserys we have."

Robert paused. "Poor woman. Some of the stories about how Aerys treated her... there seems to be more truth to the worst of them than most of us believed."

"Like what?" asked Renly.

The two older brothers exchanged looks. "When you're older," Robert said firmly. "Much older."

* * *

  
**Barristan I**

The Great Hall looked entirely different to Barristan as he stood in it. It was hard to believe that the vast, echoing chamber had once been heaped in dragon bones. The new replacement of the Iron Throne was another startling change.

Viserys Targaryen obviously felt the same way. The boy was dressed in the same finery he'd worn as a prince and he'd the gossip Barristan had heard said he'd tried to wear his mother's crown on his head. Prince Stannis had forbidden that, of course. Now he seemed close to tears as he stood on the long carpet between the door and the throne, files of King's Men to either side of him.

"Where is it?" he cried out, his young voice shrill and cutting across the herald's announcement of him.

Ashara gripped Barristan's arm. "He's just a boy," she murmured.

"Aye. But he was a prince. This may go ill for him."

"Where is my throne!?"

Robert Baratheon had chosen a royal blue tunic, embroidered with golden stags, for this occasion. His warhammer was leant against the throne and Aegon's Crown was a glitter of gold against his black hair. "Your father's throne? Ser Jorah is wearing part of it."

All eyes went to the Royal Guardsman, stood to the King's left where Barristan had spent so many hours on duty. In addition to his mail he now wore a breastplate etched with a mighty stag, supported by a wolf and a bear, trampling upon a fallen dragon.

"You have no right!" the boy declared boldly. "I am the king!"

Robert favoured him with an amused look and then glanced at Stannis. "His sister?"

Looking grim and uncomfortable with the duty, Stannis walked up to the throne. Robert leant forwards and accepted the baby girl, holding her in front of him. "Well met, cousin," he greeted her as if she would understand.

"Take your hands off her, you usurper!" Viserys made to rush the throne but two of the King's Men stepped in and firmly caught hold of his shoulders.

Very deliberately, Robert placed Daenerys in his lap, head supported by his knees. Then he turned a grim stare upon Viserys. "Very well, cousin. My hands, as you can see, are not upon your sister. Do not imagine I will grant every demand you make, however."

"You say that I am an usurper. That is one point of view. In that view I would be wise to safeguard my throne by having you stabbed to death like your niece Rhaenys and dash your sister's skull against a wall, as Gregor Clegane did to your nephew."

"Another view would be that I am the nearest adult male in kinship to your father upon his death and that the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms have acknowledge me as their King. In that view your claim has no more substance than that of Vaella daughter of Daeron or Maegor son of Aerion after the death of King Maekar Targaryen, fifty two years ago."

"My mother crowned me as the King!"

"Your mother, the Seven bless her soul, gave you the crown she wore as consort. I doubt she desired you be consort to the new king..."

Barristan winced at the look on Viserys' face as a titter went up from the observing nobles.

"...so I must conclude that your mother, after years of abuse from your father, was not of sound mind. Had she been, she would have known that the rule of Westeros wasn't hers to bestow." Robert shook his head. "Now, I don't expect you to like me - I killed your brother after all - but in two days your mother will be laid to rest beneath the Great Sept. If you give me your word to behave as my guest until I'm done with that then you can attend those ceremonies."

Pale-faced, Viserys looked at the king and then the floor. The king. The floor. Then at Jorah Mormont. "I... I will attend my mother's funeral. Until then... I accept your hospitality."

Robert nodded and bread was brought out on a platter, along with a dish of salt. Viserys sprinkled salt on the bread and choked down a mouthful. While he did so, the king poked at Daenery's cheeks gently and made paternal noises. It was not a side of the Demon of the Trident that Barristan had expected to see. He wondered if he would feel the same way when he and Ashara had children.

Turning to his wife he saw her looking at the king. "Not quite what I expected to happen."

"Nor I," she admitted quietly. "This is not the court I remember."

"That's a good thing, surely?"

She didn't have an opportunity to reply for Viserys was firmly ushered off to the side and the herald announced: "Ser Barristan Selmy and Lady Ashara Selmy!"

Walking down the same carpet (with no escort of King's Men), they both knelt before the dais.

"It gives me great joy to learn that we live in a Westeros where the greatest of our knights may win the hand of the most beautiful of our ladies," Robert greeted them. "I understand that Prince Eddard has offered you lands in the North?"

"Aye, your grace. A goodly demesne between the Rills and the Wolfswood, if somewhat neglected in recent years."

The King nodded. "To establish yourselves in your new home, I pray you will not be offended if I bestow upon you a small token? Five hundred gold dragons, spent carefully, should allow you to furnish a keep and attract smallfolk to farm for your house."

"We are most grateful for your generosity, your grace," Ashara said quickly - perhaps fearing he would refuse the gift? He was not quite so selfless, for all that Robert owed him nothing at all.

Robert nodded approvingly. "Then please join my brothers and I at the high table for tonight's feast in honour of Stannis' victory at Dragonstone and his appointment as my Master of Ships." His smile grew a little sly. "Rest assured, Lady Ashara, you will have plenty of ladies to converse with, for Prince Jon's nieces Jeyne, Sharra and Aemma have joined us here at court..."

* * *

  
**Ned V**

The ride north from Riverrun had been chilly, although winter was well receding now. This was the North that Ned remembered, the North he would now rule.

He only hoped that the frost might pass from his household given time.

Catelyn rode further back in the column, next to the wet-nurse who carried their son Robb. Lyanna though, rode up beside Ned and exclaimed at every familiar landmark, pointing it out to the other two babes. I was right to agree she should come home. She's too much the direwolf ever to be at home in King's Landing.

"Prince Eddard!" Cheers went up from the men and women of Wintertown as they rode through it. "Lady Lyanna!" Only a few remembered to add: "Lady Catelyn!" or "Prince Robb!" to that but Ned was careful to nod to those who did. This must be a place for them too or it would be a cold hearth and a cold bed for him in the future. That... bothered him more than he had thought it would.

Rodrik Cassel had the remaining men and women of Winterfell in the yard by the time the horses walked through the gates. "My prince, Winterfell is yours."

"Aye." He dismounted and then walked back to Catelyn' horse and helped her dismount while Lyanna received her own welcome home. "My princess," he said quietly. "Welcome to your home."

Catelyn gave him a thoughtful look. "My prince," she said quietly.

They came out from amid the mounts together, with Robb carried in Ned's arms. "Rodrik, here are two Starks you have not met before. My wife Catelyn and our heir, Robb."

Rodrik, who had been embracing his brother, turned and then dropped to one knee on the cobbles. The others matched him until only the Starks stood. Even Lyanna tossed her hair and dropped to one knee, heedless of her skirts.

The moment held until another horse cantered into the yard, lathered with sweat. It's rider wore dark leathers. "Ned, Lyanna!"

"Benjen!" Lyanna shrieks and embraces their brother as soon as he has dismounted. When they last met, he was more boy than man but the war has aged him, even here and far from the fighting.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. The herds needed some attention and..."

Ned silences him with his own embrace. "You've done well here, Benjen. Meet my wife and -"

A wail went up from where Lyanna had left the other children to a wetnurse.

"- and the children."

"Children? I know you have a son now, but..."

"Aye. This is Robb. Your surety of not inheriting Winterfell yourself."

Benjen bowed over the infant, studying his face. "A handsome boy." When he looked up he turned automatically to the babes, one a small bundle in Lyanna's arms and the other of about Robb's size, arms free and waving about at any movement that the child spotted. He looked at his brother questioningly.

"Longstarks," Ned said quietly.

"Longstarks?"

"Aye. Lyanna has been granted that name and we will prepare a holdfast for her up by the lakes. Rickard and Brandon will be her heirs."

Catelyn and Benjen's heads both snapped up at that news, one because of the names and the other because he had not told her of that plan thus far - the opportunity had not arisen.

"It was my fault they went south," Lyanna said softly. "Ned was the one who reclaimed their bones but I thought I should -" Breath whooped out of her as Benjen hugged her again. After a moment she rested her head against his, their hair the exact same shade, blending into one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Varys I**

Robert did not like the Black Cells, it seemed. Or perhaps he simply did not trust them.

Instead, when the King's Men detained Varys they escorted him to a tower-chamber and the guards were placed under the direction of Ser Brynden Tully. The Blackfish's breastplate showed the same fallen dragon and triumphant stag as Jorah Mormont's, but on his there were fish nibbling at the corpse of the dragon.

"I admire the view from here," Varys said, "But I don't think that that's why you brought me here, your grace."

Robert sat on the bed and gestured for Varys to take the chair. As cells went - and it was definitely a cell - the room wasn't too bad. "Do you know what they say about your loyalty, Varys?"

"They say many things, your grace. But I imagine," he sat himself facing the king, "That you mean the joke about my name."

"That's the one." Robert shrugged. "Let's be fair. You served Aerys, loyally and well, right up to the end. I admit that freely. And so far as I can tell, you've served me loyally and well, thus far."

Varys leant forwards. "Then may I ask why am I confined?"

"Because you'd serve another king, just as loyally and just as ably."

The eunuch opened his eyes as if in comprehension. "You think that I would serve the Lord Visenys, your grace?"

"It's a concern," agreed Robert. "But still, I'm loathe to punish a man for he may or may not do in the future. So I'm removing you from the temptation."

"I see your keen sense of mercy has not deserted you."

"It's a temporary measure. Unless you do something foolish like trying to leave without permission, you'll walk out a free man." He smiled thinly. "I've heard it said that no one should enter politics if they're concerned they might wind up locked away for a while."

"It is something of an occupational hazard," Varys admitted.

"I'd advise you to retire but who am I to tell a man to give up the trade he so clearly loves?" Robert rose to his feet. "Stannis found dozens of stone eggs on Dragonstone. Dragons who never hatched. I'm told that collectors would pay a fortune for one but the Targaryens would never have sold them, of course."

"Naturally."

Robert nodded. "Once Rhaella has been buried, I'll give you one of the eggs and passage to Pentos. A letter of recommendation for your abilities as well."

"You no longer desire my services then?"

"I need someone with your skills, Varys. Unfortunately I can't afford to keep you." He went to the door, pointedly not turning his back. "I wish you well in future endeavours, as long as they aren't to my detriment of course."

Varys watched the door close resignedly. The key turning had a certain finality to it. Then he sighed, went to the small table and pinched a scrap of bread from that on the plate he'd been left for an evening meal. Placing it on the sill of the window he retreated to the chair and watched to see if a bird came to accept it.

* * *

  
**Jon VI**

"I'd have hoped we would have more time between securing Dragonstone and causing further conflicts, your grace."

Robert smiled at Jon's mild reprimand. "Better to strike before our enemies have time to get to work. Most likely we'll see a winter upon us in a year or two and at that point our opportunites to act will be limited."

"Perhaps you're right. I take it then that you've ruled out any expediant action regarding Aerys' younger children."

"I have. You disapprove?"

"Not entirely, but I must ask your reasoning? If nothing else, some lords will take it for weakness on your part."

Robert shrugged. "I will always have enemies. That's the price of being a king. If Viserys and his sister aren't available as figureheads then someone will resurrect the Blackfyre claim, or that of some other branch of the House. Not all of the Targaryens were so convenient as to wed siblings and breed themselves back into the royal line. I may as well keep the most obvious candidates on hand."

"We could at least send Viserys to the Wall. Five or six years from now he'd be a plausible candidate whereas his sister won't be a concern for twice that long at least."

Coal black eyebrows arched. "You want me to send him to his - our, in fact - great-great-uncle Aemon? The idea might have merit if we hadn't allowed near a hundred Crownland lords and knights join the Night Watch in lieu of bending the knee to me as King."

Jon paused, feeling foolish. It wasn't often that Robert managed to so convincingly put him on the backfoot. "You're right, that would be unwise. My apologies, your grace. Perhaps sending him to the Citadel to become a Maester..."

"That has potential for the future. Right now, that would put him neatly into the hands of the Tyrells - who are probably feeling quite resentful for now." Robert shrugged. "For now, Viserys can stay at court and keep company with Renly. They're about of an age."

"And the same for Daenerys."

Robert nodded. "A shrewd choice by Rhaella. That name would find favour in Dorne. She will remain here as well. And I should look into bringing Mya her as well."

"Your daughter?"

"Aye. And... hells. Any other daughters or sons I may have sired. I was a bloody fool, wasn't I?" He covered his eyes with his hands. "That would be a fine legacy to leave my heirs, their own Blackfyres to deal with."

"They'd have been little concern if Aegon IV hadn't legitimised them."

"Well I'm not proposing that. But keeping Viserys locked away from everyone won't do him or us any good. Nor Renly, for that matter, I gather half the children in the Keep are afraid to play with him lest they bring down royal wrath on their heads. Let them remember they're boys first and royal can wait until they're older."

Jon shook his head. "Do you want to invite Lord Tywin's younger son too? He's a little older though."

"I wouldn't object to that but I think Lord Tywin might have ill memories of his children being summoned away to King's Landing. Perhaps once he's old enough for responsibility, he can be groomed for an eventual seat on the Small Council?"

"That might please Tywin almost as much as the prospect of his son being Prince of the Rock. You had a good idea in making sure that suitable successors to each seat are prepared, but unfortunately we don't anyone prepared for Varys' seat yet."

"I've a thought or two, at least for now." Robert frowned. "It's unusual but how would you feel about calling Olenna Tyrell to court as Varys' replacement?"

Jon felt his jaw drop. "Have you lost your mind? You want the Queen of Thorns as your Master of Whispers?"

"She does have one telling advantage over Varys: her family. Since any betrayal would reflect very poorly on the Tyrells, she would be more controllable. And she's no fool - notoriously, in fact. Throw in the way women gossip..."

"You seem confident you can outsmart the woman."

"That's a concern, yes. But I don't insist on being the smartest person in the Court. And I'd being doing the Tyrells - and Mace Tyrell himself - a great favour."

Jon grimaced. "You think they'll see it like that?"

"From what I hear, Lord Tyrell would probably kiss my arse for the privilege of having his mother on the other side of Westeros from Highgarden."

* * *

  
**Tywin V**

"Father!? The North? What can those barbarians offer us?"

Tywin stared at Cersei for a moment, long enough for her to swallow and then moderate her tone.

"I don't understand this, father. Please could you explain it to me so that I don't inadvertantly spoil your plans?"

Better. That was the peril of daughters with strong wills. Hopefully Cersei's future husband would be as accomodating as Genna's husband - and without the unfortunate kinship to the lustful Lord of the Twins. "Besides the King, Cersei there are only a handful of men of suitable rank and age to be offered your hand."

"Then why not the King? He isn't to marry the Stark chit, so what other lady can he court?"

"He intends to marry a Crownlander, a decision which isn't without some merit from his perspective."

"And I suppose he felt that if he married me he'd have to render us a princely house, the way he did the Starks and Arryns."

"Possibly." Tywin personally doubted that it would have been the result. Jaime would reap the benefits, which was, on balance acceptable. "The decision is made however. That leaves Prince Stannis and Lord Benjen... unless you think there would be any point in pursuing a marriage to Oberyn Martell?"

"A degenerate of a degenerate House that rule the most degenerate of the Kingdoms. But at least they aren't savages."

"The Starks are hardly as savage as some of their bannermen. Whatever our part, the key alliance for the next generation will be based around Hoster Tully's grandchildren, the heirs to three Kingdoms and at least two branches inheriting a close bond with our current King, something he is hardly foolish enough to neglect. Marrying a Stark brings you into that."

"Wedding Stannis Baratheon would be as good. At least he's now of royal blood."

"True. And as a close counsellor to his brother, marrying him would put you in a significant position at court. But he's also stubborn and exceedingly jealous of his authority. As his bride you would have little latitude or influence over him. In contrast, Benjen Stark has been shielded from the war and is hardly noted for lordly ambitions."

"More malleable then."

Tywin nodded, glad the girl was finally using her wits. "The Baratheon brothers are hardly close, in comparison to the way the King views Prince Stark, and he is even closer to Lyanna Stark. It's reasonable to believe that Benjen Stark may could receive a similarly high degree of favour."

"From some god-forsaken hold in a far corner of the North?"

"A small holdfast in and of itself, but the lands proposed are extremely large and Lord Stark has agreed that to develop them his brother will have full authority to grant lands to a knightly house should they be willing to endow a younger son with sufficient smallfolk to make use of it. That's an opportunity that even Stannis Baratheon won't have in taking control of his new march: the chance to shape the demesne to his own pattern."

"Ah." Cersei nodded. "And there will be Westerland knights well placed to take advantage of this?"

"Naturally. Much better that they be enriching their houses in the North than cluttering taverns and brothels across half of Westeros."

His daughter smiled in understanding. "So what lands is Lord Benjen to be offered?"

Tywin drew out one of the maps he kept rolled on the desk for immediate reference. "With the King's permission? All of this."

Cersei stared. "Truly?"

"I would expect that he will take the name of this settlement for his demesne. Lady of Queenscrown has a suitable ring to it, does it not?"

* * *

  
**Olenna I**

Her son was plotting again. She could tell by the way he was glancing sideways at her when he thought she wasn't watching.

"Out with it, you oaf," she called down the table. "The Florents and Hightowers probably already know what you're up to so you might as well share it with your family."

The Lord Paramount of the Reach frowned into his beard. "The Stag has sent a letter."

"Ah, still sore are you? You should have taken his first offer, Mace, not pressed on and hoped you could use his brothers as leverage against him."

"Storm's End was about to fall!"

"Almost, but not quite."

Mace's jaw snapped shut and he glowered.

"What did the new king write to you about, dear?" asked Alerie. "A marriage, perhaps? It's said that Lyanna Stark returned to the North rather than wed him."

"I would have thought mother was too old for him, but then again the man is rapacious."

Olenna tilted her head. "I'm a little deaf in this ear, boy, but I'm called to court I take it?"

Mace nodded. "Perhaps he misses his own mother. It seems he wants you to be his Master of Whispers. Mistress, I should say."

"I've always thought that the Seven Kingdoms would do better if the Lords heeded their mothers better. It's the first time though that I've come across one of them putting that into practise."

"There's never been a woman on the Small Council," grumbled Mace. "It's unnatural."

"Well we know balls aren't a requirement or Aerys wouldn't have appointed Varys."

"What happened to Lord Varys?" asked Willas from the far side of his father.

"He wasn't a lord, dear," his mother corrected the boy.

"It's a good question though. The Spider won't stop spinning his webs for something as small as dismissal."

"He didn't say."

"I didn't expect you to know," she told Mace. "Still, Corbray dead and replaced with the middle Baratheon, Varys replaced and Hoster Tully off home in a huff. Judging by the fuss at the Citadel, Pycelle might find himself out of his place as Grand Maester too. That's more than half the Small Council changed and the Stag hasn't been on the throne for a year yet."

"I hadn't heard that!" exclaimed her son. "The King can't dismiss the Grand Maester!"

Olenna gave a illutrative sigh at the boy's slowness. "He can write to the Conclave though, and Pycelle's never been discreet. I'd wager all he'd have to ask them was whether they'd rather appoint a new Grand Maester or have no Maester on the Small Council at all. "

"Pycelle's been good enough for three Targaryen kings."

"That's likely the point. Out with the old and in with the new."

"Does that mean you'll decline the post, mother?" asked Alerie.

Olenna took her stick and tapped it on the floor to signal Left to pull her chair back from the table. "Don't be silly, girl. And don't call me mother, I'm only at fault for one fool at this table."


	7. Chapter 7

**Stannis VI**

Stannis sat at the high table and watched as Robert danced with Jeyne Waynwood. There was always something vaguely dissonant about Robert dancing with a girl he wasn't trying to bed. Not that Jeyne wasn't sufficiently pretty (in the bareboned Arryn way of her mother's kin) but even Robert, it seemed, was willing to draw the line at bedding his Hand's niece.

For one thing he'd have to wed her, and that would rather undermine his strategy for the Crownlands. For another...

He frowned. It wasn't as if he kept close track of his brother's wenching but how long had it been since Robert had a girl in his bed? Not since Stannis returned from Dragonstone.

That went beyond dissonant and right to the implausible. Probably he was simply keeping it out of sight.

"I see that hope springs eternal into my sister's breast."

"Hope that they'll fall out of the dress?" asked Stannis and then realised he'd said that in hearing of Alys Arryn, who had to force a smile over the snarl that was probably more natural.

Sharra Waynwood laughed. "No, but she's young enough to think she can ignore uncle and mother's instructions to concentrate on courting you not your brother."

He grunted. "Robert might remember not to take advantage of that."

The girl rolled her eyes. "I've heard the stories and even met the daughter he left at the Eyrie. Mya's a sweet child but I don't want think she's what my sister wants."

"And what do you want?"

"Right now, Prince Stannis, I would like you to dance with me. That's terribly forward, but you are the hero of the hour. And then, if you'd be so good as to dance with Aemma before she manages to slip away."

The third sister, who had been edging towards the end of the table, shot an innocent look at her mother and then a sour one at Sharra and Stannis.

Tightening his jaw, Stannis pushed back his own chair. It was expected of him, he supposed. "Lady Sharra, would you like to dance?"

She accepted his hand, stood and gracefully half-guided him into the dance. "More than you like it, I would guess. Don't worry, once you've danced with Aemma you'll have fulfilled your obligations and can go back to scowling at everyone from the high table." The smile she directed at him was conspiratorial. "Father doesn't care much for dancing either."

He grunted and concentrated on the steps of the dance for a while as they passed Robert. His brother nodded, having somehow handed Jeyne off to someone else. His new dance partner was a rail thin girl from one of the Crownland houses. She was simpering at Robert in an insincere fashion.

"Poor girl is trying too hard," Sharra noted. "One of the Stokesworth girls?"

"I don't know." He waited until they were at the far end of the hall. "So you've been told to snare me. You aren't trying hard."

"Why Prince Stannis, what a thing to say." She leant against him precisely as far as decorum allowed. "While I would have a hard time saying no, if you wanted me, I'd rather a lord who would be with me in our keep. I don't think a Prince who rules a strategic marchland as well as serving his brother as Master of Ships and who knows what else could do that."

"True enough."

"And I have an understanding with father that if this doesn't work out, he'll look into an arrangement with one of my cousins in Gulltown. Lord... sorry, Prince Jon, isn't on the best of terms with them but they're very rich and after the town was the centre of the loyalists during the war he needs to mend fences."

"And your sisters?" he asked tightly as they spun and started working their way up the hall again.

Sharra shook her hair. "Jeyne has time, unless she does something remarkably stupid. Aemma though... Father's considering a Frey match. You might like her though. She likes helping to run the keep, it's just feasts like this she doesn't like. She thinks they're a waste of time, money and effort."

Stannis ground his teeth. "So you think we'll hit it off."

"I don't see it costs anything to try." Sharra released his hand as they reached the high table. "I think I should sit down again, Lord Stannis." She picked up a fan she'd left there and began waving it. Her eyes flicked towards Aemma.

Not marrying that one if I can avoid it, Stannis thought, picking up his mug and sipping from it. Too bossy. He saw Robert coming back to the table though, trying to brush off Jeyne again without being too obvious. Hah. He deserves that, but I don't want to put up with it.

"Lady Aemma," he offered bluntly. "Would you care for a walk outside in the fresher air?"

Aemma, who was meatier than her sisters, nodded quickly and rose to take his arm. "I would be glad to."

To Stannis' relief, the girl then said not a single word as they exited the hall and crossed the courtyard. Well she's not a chatterbox, that's something, he admitted grudgingly to himself.

* * *

 

**Barristan II**

Having seen the changes to the throneroom, Barristan had left Ashara with the other ladies of the court (he was old enough and wise enough to know that there were some conversations no man should be privy too) while he went to see what else had been changed.

The Maidenvault being taken over by some devices the King had inspired was a surprise but it wasn't as if the building had been in use since Aerys' mother had passed away.

Barristan roamed back towards more familiar haunts. The White Sword Tower still stood, guarded now by King's Men. It could hardly be their headquarters though, after all - there were far more than seven of them. Perhaps the Royal Guard resided there? There were only seven of them so far...

The doors opened as he pondered, revealing King Robert followed by Lord Bolton and Ser Brynden Tully in the garb of the Royal Guard. "Ser... no, Lord Selmy now." The King raised his hand as well as his voice in greeting. "What brings you back here?"

"Making myself scarce while the women discuss whatever it is they talk of when their men are elsewhere." He tilted his head towards the tower. "I admit I was wondering what use is made now of the place that was my home for so long."

Robert blinked and then shrugged. "Actually it's my residence for now."

"You aren't using the royal arpartments in Maegor's Holdfast?"

"I think Gregor Clegane showed exactly how secure they are and to be honest, all the dragons in the stonework creeped me out." Robert pretended to shudder. "I had trouble sleeping. There's enough room for me the old quarters of the Lord Commander and they're certainly comfortable enough."

"A little spartan for a King?"

"Well I wasn't born royal and we Stormlanders aren't as... haughty as Targaryens." He grinned. "Besides, being associated with what was for so long the most honourable and noble of Knights in all the land is something of a benefit."

"Ah, but those days are past. Our name is tarnished and most of us are dead."

"You, Lannister and Arthur Dayne."

"Yes..." Barristan shook his head. "I should send a raven to Jaime. Arthur remains quite... irate regarding what he views as our betrayal."

"And yet he let you marry his sister?"

"Ah..." Barristan sighed. "Not as such, your grace."

"Oh." Robert shook his head. "Well, I pardoned all the Kingsguard. If he chooses not to make a fresh start then it will be on his own head."

"He would be a dangerous opponent," warned Barristan. "He was the best of us, and greatly respected by many. Yet the man I parted from at Starfall was not the one I had called brother."

Lord Bolton nodded. "It would be wise to pay attention to any whispers that might come from Starfall, your grace."

"I'll add it to the list for my new Master of Whispers," the king said drily. "It's not a short list as it is. Anyway, Lord Selmy. Lord Bolton and I are going to watch the City Watch training. As I recall, you know a thing or two about such matters, would you care to join us?"

"I would be delighted." He thought back to the rumours he'd heard before his departure with Ned. "Is it true that they are forbidden from carrying swords?"

Bolton nodded.

"May I ask why?"

The northerner inclined his head quietly. "Swords are for soldiers. The Watch are to keep the peace, not to slaughter those they police."

"Clubs and quaterstaffs are more than enough to keep order. A sword might make a bravo bold," the King pointed out, "But against a well-trained man with a staff I know where my money would lie."

"Then I suppose that their training is of concern." Barristan nodded in understanding.

"All watchmen must be proficient with staff, club and crossbow." Bolton glanced at the King and bowed his head slightly. "Also his grace insisted on lessons on deportment. It's surprisingly useful."

"Deportment?"

The king shrugged. "A soft word, with a big stick in reserve, can avoid breaking heads better than half the time in my experience. Probably better for them to learn by example and not just by trial and error."

* * *

  
**Ned VI**

Qorgyle Shaw slammed his fist down on his desk. "How can you approve of this?" he demanded.

Ned kept his face impassive, as nearly as he could manage his father's mask of command.

After a long moment of silence, Shaw leant back into his chair. "We aren't subordinate to the Iron Throne. Jeor's son is said to be close to the King too. If we write to him and appeal the decision..."

"Queen Alysanne granted the New Gift to the Night's Watch to help fund their work in protecting Westeros from threats north of the wall. I rode through the New Gift and the Gift on the way here. It's hard to argue that they're being used for that purpose. Or at all."

"And I supose that granting your brother a lordly demesne has nothing to do with it?"

Jeor cleared his throat. "There are many lands Prince Stark could grant to his brother, even after his generosity to Lady Lyanna and to Lord Selmy."

"In truth, Lord Commander, King Robert is very concerned about the maintenance of the Wall and the defense of the northern border. He even asked me how severely the North would hate him if he disbanded the Night Watch and formed a replacement."

"I hope you told him to go to the netherhells!"

"I told the King that no one who hadn't visited the Wall should make that decision. So we invited Lord Umber."

"And?"

"He told Robert to go to the netherhells," Ned said coolly. "And then they got drunk and Robert got quite a list of better ideas out of Greatjon. This is one of them."

"Giving up the New Gift is hardly helping us!"

"You aren't doing anything with the New Gift. Even with the Targaryen loyalists who chose the Wall over bending their knees to Robert, you've barely a thousand men. Not even one farm in ten on the Old Gift is being worked. Robert's plan will bring hundreds of smallfolk north to farm the lands, food you can use to feed your men and concentrate more of them on the wall."

"Southerners won't last two months in the North, not even in summer much less in winter." Qorgyle shook his head. "And what then? We'll be weaker than ever."

"Losing something you don't use for the chance of something better is weaker?" asked Benjen, speaking for the first time. "I was considering joining the Night's Watch myself - it's a grand tradition for we Starks. But this is something better that I can do for you. You'll get all the taxes a lord would normally send to Winterfell, and first call on my banners if we're needed."

"You know that the Night's Watch stands their watch alone!"

Ned met the glare evenly. "My great-grandsire died at Long Lake because the Night's Watch failed in that charge. "

Qorgyle paled. "I am no Sleepy Jack!"

"Perhaps not, but you have only half the men he had."

Jeor shifted. "Lord Commander, it's said that the Wall is a world apart even from the rest of the North. Closing that gap could be of benefit to us, and perhaps get us some recruits of better quality."

The 996th Commander of the Night's Watch threw up his hands. "Don't blame me if Wildlings drive them all off and take your new bride as a spear-wife."

Who else would be to blame, it's your wall that should guard the lands? Ned chose to accept the victory, however grudging it was. "In addition, the King's established a force of men to handle the defenses of King's Landing. If you consent, he's offered to send a company north in a year or two to help clear out some of the other castles. We might not be able to put them back in service but at least they'll be in a better state for that if it becomes necessary."

"You can't think that they'll choose to stay here."

"I rather doubt it," said Benjen. "They'll be southerners after all, and you've told me what a warm welcome southerners get here."

"Once again, some help is more than you've had here in generations. Why not see how it goes?"

"I don't suppose I have much choice. Not with that veiled threat you made. Now you've been to the wall, you can tell Robert that you know all about us. The New Gift now, the Gift for one of your sons... And so ends a tradition that's lasted eighty centuries."

"When Robert asks - and he will - I'll tell him that the Night's Watch still stands for those traditions and that he can count on them to do so."

"Except for the tradition of our independence, it seems." Qorgyle slumped. "I suppose I must accomodate your King or find myself replaced."

"I don't think that that's very likely. But he might visit himself," Ned told him. "He'd probably prefer the wall to being King, given the choice."

* * *

  
**Varys II**

"You've put on weight."

Varys smiled at his old friend's gibe as he was escorted into Illyrio's receiving chamber, but didn't return the comment, although the former bravo was two or perhaps three times the man he had been in the youth - in weight at least. In wealth the difference was vastly greater. "There isn't much room for exercise aboard a sailing vessel, I fear."

"I'd imagine so. The new King threw you out then?"

"I was shocked."

"That he didn't trust you?"

Varys laughed. "No, it was quickly clear he wasn't so foolish as that. But sending me away with a handsome reward... now that was a surprise. He seems to know the edge of mercy."

"Ah, that's quite surprising. I had heard he was something of a brute."

"Oh he is more nuanced than that." Varys shook his head. "I wouldn't be entirely surprised if I didn't feature in his plans even now."

Illyrio shrugged his vast shoulders. "Well, be my guest and see what song your little birds sing."

On balance, Varys decided it wouldn't be prudent to admit that he hadn't managed to make contact with any of his sources before boarding the ship for Pentos. Not for want of trying, it must be said, but at least three had fallen into the hands of Lord Bolton and he had the distinct impression that the northerner would get information out of them somehow, which boded ill for his network.

"I will gladly accept your hospitality, my friend, but I have an idea or two to keep myself busy."

"Back to our old games? Alas, but I am not the one people come to any more, seeking the recovery of that which has been stolen from them."

Varys smiled broadly. "Oh a new game, Illyrio - or rather, a new spin upon an old one. Tell me, is it best to sell a hundred secrets for a hundred silvers or twenty thousand secrets for a silver apiece?"

"Why the latter, but once circulated such a secret would surely lose its currency long before you have whispered into twenty thousand ears."

"Well, King Robert may have rewarded me, but I am not certain he knows that I also walked away with something that may be more valuable."

"Wine for my friend and I!" called Illyrio, clapping his hands together. "Please, Varys, you know my curiosity is my greatest weakness."

Second only to your avarice, old friend. "Why I shall keep you on tenterhooks no longer then." He leant forwards. "I shall place all my resources into gathering the most timely and titillating of secrets and for the merest token of payment anyone at all will be enlightened to them."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone." Varys beamed. "For I shall place all this information on display in the marketplace, upon a single sheet of the cheapest parchment or paper, reprinted hundreds or thousands times. How much do the merchant houses spend to stay abreast of events, how much interest do the wives of even the humblest craftsmen have on the affairs and..." he chortled, "Affairs, of the wealthy and notable?"

"Truly I can see how you will tickle their fancy," confessed the merchant. "But to reproduce such sheets would cost a fortune unless..."

Varys winked. "And that is King Robert's unwitting gift to me, besides the - too be fair - quite handsome reward."

"My friend, you will be as rich as me if you can pull this off."

"Oh it isn't about the money."

Illyrio accepted a goblet from his servant and directed a wry smile over it to Varys.

The eunuch raised his own goblet in salute at the point. "Oh very well, it isn't entirely about the money." He paused. This couldn't be what Robert wanted me to do, could it? he thought. No, I will grant that he's an excellent improviser, but he couldn't imagine that I would take his little toy and make this out of it...

No, nonsense. Still, it'll be a terrible shame that I have to watch him from a distance. He really is a very remarkable young man...


	8. Chapter 8

**Olenna II**

The tourney at King's Landing wasn't as grand as the one held at Harrenhal two years before, Olenna noted. This wasn't to say that gold hadn't been spent but to her eye it seemed to have been spent differently. Rather than splendid stands and banners, the new King had focused on durable flags and almost everything used had the look of something that might very well be cleaned, folded up and stored away for another occasion.

Five feasts marked the occasion and while the first and last were entirely at the expense of the King, he'd cannily invited Lord Tully, Prince Arryn and Lord Lannister to each host one banquet, bringing with them delicacies from their Kingdoms to spice up the food on offer. Once again this moderated the expense and Tully hadn't been able to resist the temptation to show off.

Olenna was sure that when Mace learned of the extravagance shown, he'd leap at the chance to seek to surpass it at the next opportunity. At least Prince Arryn and Gerion Lannister - representing his brother - were showing more restraint.

"You don't say that these rumours are true?" Gerion asked as he escorted Olenna to the high table of the Westerland feast.

"That depends which rumours you mean. There's enough that if you recite them all I'll be dead before you're done."

"That might indeed be true, but the one I mean is that it is said you will be replacing Lord Varys on the Small Council."

"Well it's not as if he needs a Master of Ships, with his brother in the role."

"Ha, very true," Gerion conceded. "Alas, my own experience with the Westerlands fleet has not been enough to catch the King's eye when set against the glorious victor of Dragonstone. Why I hear he lost almost half his fleet before laying eyes on the place."

"It can hardly compare to your glorious victories... whatever they were." Her nephew's Redwyne fleet had at least successfully blockaded Storm's End, even if that had left the Reach's coast open to Ironborn depredations.

The Lannister laughed out loud. "The Seven forbid that you and my nephew Tyrion ever meet. His tongue is already sharp enough he could cut himself on it."

"And his father specialises in cutting men down to size, which probably explains the dwarf's height." Olenna tapped the chair Gerion led her to with her stick and Right pulled it back for her. "Go tend your other guests, Ser. I can sit down without help, it's just getting up that is harder with age."

"You're looking well," Lord Estermont observed from his own seat - one place closer to where the King would be sitting once he arrived.

She snorted. "By what standard?"

"At our age the fact we aren't buried is a good start."

"That requires intelligent decision-making, not something I expected from your nephews."

"Well Robert's named you as his new Mistress, which makes your point for you." He'd timed the remark right as the youngest Waynwood girl entered and Olenna saw the girl paling in shock.

Fortunately for the girl's sensibilities, she was placed at a lower table so Olenna wouldn't have to deal with her no doubt insipid whimperings. Instead the seat on her other side was occupied by a quiet Northerner. It took her some time to realise that the man was the by now infamous Lord Bolton, partly because he volunteered no information

"So why did the King appoint you his Senechal?" she demanded of him, after reminding Estermont that he should take Renly Baratheon in hand before the boy's brothers spoiled him rotten.

The pale-eyed lord chewed quietly on a mouthful of pheasent and then swallowed. "We have never discussed that matter."

"No, I don't suppose that you have."

"It may be," he said judiciously, "That you and I have much in common with Tywin Lannister."

Estermont leant forwards to look past Olenna. "Oh, what is that?"

Bolton smiled thinly and refilled his goblet. "Counsellors that can be dismissed, taking the blame for less popular policies."

"I hardly think that Robert is that calculating."

Olenna drew her lips back from her teeth. "I would agree with half of that, Lord Lomas. Are you married, Lord Roose?"

"A widower."

"And likely to remain that way until the King weds - every maid in Westeros is setting her cap at him, and a good many widows who should know better."

Bolton made a non-committal noise that was lost as Gerion finished a rambling set of remarks that were probably intended to be witty and possibly impressed the more inebriated.

The King rose to his feet. "Thank you, Lord Gerion, for hosting this banquet on behalf of your brother. I'm, particularly pleased with the wine, which is well suited both to those such as yourself who have been doing very well in the jousting, and also to certain whose fortunes have been less beneficial - or who waged upon those in that state."

There was a mutter from some of the slower thinkers trying to work out if Robert was complimenting the wine or not.

"One of Lord Tywin's last duties as my Hand was to assist me in considering whom I ought marry. As such it's fitting that it be today, at this feast, that I can announce that Prince Arryn and I have concluded the negotiations for my marriage to Lady Alysanne Chelsted."

The King went around the table and walked down to one of the side tables to where a solidly-built young woman rose from her own seat to greet him. Robert kissed her on the cheek and then ushered her back to her chair before lifting woman and chair together and carrying them back to the high table.

There was a certain amount of shuffling of chairs to make room, Left and Right together lifting Olenna's chair for her without her needing to stand. And following this everyone had to move their platters.

"Qarlton Chelsted's sister, isn't she?"

Lomas nodded. "Twelve years younger than him and this should also settle the succession of those lands."

"A good match, although she'll need a thick skin and possibly a food-taster. She's just made an enemy of every unmarried lady this side of the Narrow Sea."

Lomas nodded. "With seven new Royal Guards to be chosen at the tourney she'll have two assigned to her. I'll mention a food-taster to Robert."

Olenna looked at the tables mostly occupied by Crownlanders. The marriage might win over some of the men - at least enough to push any active rebellion back until after the next winter. Well... if it was a short summer. Maybe.

* * *

  
**Tywin VI**

Tywin read the message carefully and set it aside. So Robert Baratheon would wed. The Chelsted girl wouldn't have been his preference but allowing for the requirement that the new queen should be a Crownlander she was acceptable. Cersei would no doubt throw a childish tantrum again, really she needed to grow up. It was unlikely the young Stark would be impressed by such behaviour.

"It took him long enough," he said out loud.

"A year isn't such a long time," his next oldest brother observed mildly. "And for much of that it seemed he would be wedding Lyanna Stark."

"I would almost rather that he had. At least Cersei would be less shrill."

"If you say so, Tywin. So Jaime?"

Tywin nodded. "There are three options. Firstly wed him to a daughter of a Lannister bannerman."

"It avoids entanglements."

"But it also leaves us with only a Stark alliance to rely on. The Waynwood girls would have potential - one is to wed Robert's brother, which makes them of acceptable rank."

"A second tie into the more northerly kingdoms," agreed Kevan. "Then the alternative is to find a more southerly alliance."

"Robert punished Mace Tyrell for his defiance, but now he's offering the Reach a chance to redeem themselves. Randyll Tarly as Warden of the South and Olenna Tyrell as putative Master of Whispers are examples." The real master of whispers, whoever it was, must be remaining in the shadows - however canny the Queen of Thorns was said to be, only a mad man would trust a woman with such an important position, even if she wasn't verging on senility.

"The Martells don't trust us at all and the Stormlands all think King Robert only refrains from walking on water because it would get his boots wet. But there's no Tyrell I can think of who's the right age."

Tywin shook his head. "The Tyrells are the heirs of stewards. Upstarts not worthy of my son. I've written to Leyton Hightower and now that a royal wedding is impossible for them, I expect there will be a reply."

"A fair portion of our southern trade goes to Oldtown, I think he'll see the benefits." Kevan scratched his chin. "And if he wants support in ousting the Tyrells from Highgarden?"

"Mace's heirs are Leyton's grandsons. It's unlikely he'd move so directly, but Tyrell influence in the upper Reach took a blow when they surrendered lands to the Baratheons. They can't afford to lose the support of the Hightowers so they'd have no choice but to permit any agreements Leyton and I negotiate."

His brother went to the window and looked south. "You're thinking beyond this generation."

"My son will be Prince of the Rock. If the Tyrells continue to weaken, the northern reach may look more towards a more powerful lord - particularly one with a wealthy and influential goodbrother in Oldtown."

"If that opportunity arises."

"If it does not then he still has a wealthy bride and a valuable alliance. More importantly our House will have alliances north and south."

"So when will Gerion return from King's Landing?"

"Seven years or so," Tywin snorted. "He boasts he made a fine showing in the tourney and King Robert invited him to join the Royal Guards."

Kevan shook his head "Couldn't he have refused?"

"Could have, should have, didn't. I can only hope he will find a bride in the east while he's there."

"I would have thought that Robert would be wary of a Lannister behind him after... well, you know."

"Our King seems fond of grand gestures... and with a Tyrell and an Arryn already on the Small Council, he had to offer something to our House. Master of Coin would have been more useful."

* * *

  
**Jon VII**

Robert's fist hit the arm of of the throne like his hammer. On the Iron Throne he'd likely have done himself an injury. As it was the new throne, being wooden, was probably in more danger. Fortunately it was still covered by the cloak Robert had draped it with more than a year ago so no one should notice if it was replaced with another one of the set (or by a copy in ironwood, just to be on the safe side).

"I've tried being concilatory and clearly some of you have forgotten you're not dealing with a Targaryen who'll forget about a project after a month or two." The king glared down at the leaders of the Tanner's Guild. "Those of your guild who've accepted my offer of loans and land grants to relocate outside of the walls will be reaping the rewards over the rest of you, because those offers are now closed and the trade of tanning is hereby banned within the walls of King's Landing. Lord Bolton!"

"Sire?"

Jon had almost forgotten the Seneschal was present since it was the first word he'd said so far.

"The tanners have until the end of the month. After that, if their workshops haven't been removed the City Watch is to remove them, and the tanners with them." Robert stood, towering over the guildsmen. "You don't have to relocate to Tannerstown but your trade does too much to the water the city depends on for me to allow it within the walls."

"But your grace..."

Jon stepped forwards as he saw Robert's hand going to the shaft of his hammer. "Guildmaster, do you have any other protest other than those you've been making for the last three months?"

The tanners grudgingly retreated out of the throneroom and Robert glared at them until the doors closed behind them. Only then did he relax back into the throne. "My thanks, Jon. I was on the verge of losing my temper."

"I noticed, your grace."

That got a grin from the King. "I suppose breaking their skulls wouldn't be much better than the Mad King."

At least, Jon thought, he's usually easy to get out of dark moods. "The tanneries are one of the few trades in Fleabottom," he warned. "Lord Bolton, you may need to reinforce your patrols in that part of the city."

"It seems, your grace, that you have something of a goal of ruining Fleabottom, between forcing the tanners out and the removal of so many of the landlords."

"What's this?" asked Jon.

Robert gave Bolton a mildly reproving look. "Oh alright. I'm trying to get as many people to leave that district as I can so I can demolish it. Virtually all of King's Landing drains through that part of the city so sorting out decent sewers more or less hinges on tearing most of Fleabottom apart to build the main drains there."

Jon groaned. "There are going to be riots."

The king winced. "I hope not. I'm offering bounties to those who volunteer to travel north to settle on the lands of Lord Selmy, Lyanna or her brother. And I doubt most of the residents really care for their landlords."

"Yes, what exactly are you doing to them?" The Hand of the King turned his eyes to the Seneschal.

The Northerner's face didn't change at all. "There are ancient and largely disregarded laws about the maintenance of buildings in King's Landing to reduce the chances of fires spreading. I have ordered those laws enforced... rigorously."

"All through the city, or just in Fleabottom?"

"Uniformly." He looked at Robert. "However, since Fleabottom's streets are narrower and buildings made of poorer materials the hazards of fire are greater there and violations of the law more common."

Jon thought back to the days Robert had been passing sentence on crimes in the city and judgement on disputes. For the most part, the Hand had been busy enough to leave those occasions to Robert and to Lomas Estermont. "And what sentences have been passed?"

"I gave the landlords brought before me the choice between heavy fines or surrendering their property in the district. Oh, and if they take the fines they have to make good the deficiencies too. So far, all of them gave up the land. After Aery's plan to burn the city down were revealed, no one wants to be a landlord known for carelessness on that matter."

"All this for a sewer?"

"A sewer and a considerable amount of work being done to reduce the chances of a fire spreading across the city - which isn't costing us a penny."

"Which is a good thing since I gather the roadworks are costing more than expected."

"More than Lord Rogers expected. Jerrard seems to be a decent sailor but a poor coin-counter. I had him set aside a reserve of coin in expectation that he was being optimistic about the costs. We have enough of a reserve to handle to expenses for now."

"I know Jaeharys the Wise was known for codifying the laws and building the roads but don't you think that you're taking emulation of him too far?"

"Better roads don't just let us move armies more easily, Jon. It makes it easier to move goods by cart and wagon, which should mean more trade and thus more tax revenue. Compiling all the old records makes it clear that Jaeharys income was two or three times as high by the end of his reign as it was at the beginning."

"That would be a prodigous boost to the treasury."

"We're not building them from scratch, so I don't know that we'll see quite such a return but even an increase of one-tenth the revenue from the Lords along the Rosby Road and Kingsroad will repay the investment in a summer or two." He shook his head. "Anyway. Hopefully most of the tanners will go to Tannerstown. It's much closer than the alternatives."

"And you're sure about allocating all revenues there to your new Queen?"

"Just for her lifetime." Robert's lips curved in a wry smile. "If I know aught of a lady, tis that they desire more in jewels and silks than all but the most dashing young Reachman. I don't say that Lady Alysanne would wish to bankrupt me for her wardrobe but if she must bear at least part of the costs from her own revenues, perhaps pride will reduce requests that I settle the bills of her tailors."

* * *

  
**Stannis VII**

Robert locked elbows with Stannis and the two men tilted their cups back, eyes locked on each other as they drained the contents. There were loud cheers from Stormland lords as the two bridegrooms finished their cups, unentangled their arms and slammed the mugs down, up-ended, on the table.

Stannis recalled practising this when they were boys and his brother had thought it rather jolly to accidentally belt Stannis in the face while doing this. Of course then they had been but boys and drinking filched ale, not strong apple-brandy. If it had happened this time it might have been a genuine accident.

"Good stuff," the King approved, returning to his chair between Stannis and Queen Alysanne. Taking his own seat, Stannis touched the wine flagon and gave his wife a questioning look. At her nod he refilled her goblet with the watered wine.

"Were the Rose Road in better repair we could have brought a second wagonload, your grace," Aemma said quietly.

Robert threw his head back and laughed. "To the point, are you not, my dear good-sister? I promise you that when the men and the dragons are available, the Roseroad and the Gold Road will get the same treatment as the Rosby Road and the Kingsroad. Next year should be possible unless winter comes."

"According to Prince Stark's house, winter is always coming," Alysanne reminded her new husband.

"Aye, it's a randy devil, winter." Stannis suspected Robert was winking but couldn't say with the king turned away. "While the weather permits, I shall build roads, will that be well enough for you? Now enough business, is there no music? This is a wedding feast!"

The minstrels struck up another tune, one good for the guests to pound the tables too.

"Come hear the song that the hammer sings on the armour of our enemies ,  
A gift from the gods to the valiant king, what a glorious song the hammer sings."

Stannis noted Robert's foot tapping to the tune, no surprise with a song so blatantly calculated to pander to the King's ego. However, a glance away from his bride showed that Robert's smile was a trifle forced.

"Aren't you enjoying the feast?"

Robert set his jaw. "I find the prospect of the bedding custom a trifle less amusing now it's my lady, my queen, who will be the one stripped and carried by the men."

Beside him, Queen Alysanne studied her goblet. "My lord, no lady I know is pleased by the custom, but it is our duty and if we do not do ours..."

"Even a king cannot change custom?"

"Only very carefully and by small degrees," she agreed in a low voice. "As the Targaryens discovered more than once."

"And what do you think of the custom, brother?"

Stannis closed his eyes for a moment. And his fingers, possessively, upon Aemma's hand. "It is not my taste."

"Hmm." Robert sighed and shook his head. "Well, what a King may not, his brother may dare. My lady, shall we do our duty and... allow discretion by my brother and our good-sister?"

Stannis felt Aemma's hand close around his grip.

Robert pushed back his chair and then moved Alysanne's back so she could stand. The royal couple walked around the high table and the hall fell silent as they came to stand in the centre of the great chamber. The king used his free hand to signal to the King's Men at the doors to open them wide.

"My lords, knights and ladies, I thank you all for joining me on this very happy day!" he called out. "But the hour draws on and I have a lovely bride with whom I am eager to share the marriage bed." The pair carefully moved apart from each other, as if rehearsed, until only by stretching out their arms could they remain hand in hand. "And so I bid you all a good night and merry feasting."

Then there was a crude whoop from one of the younger knights and the feasters surged around the royal couple, men converging on the queen and women on Robert.

Stannis quietly moved his own chair back and then Aemma's. The attention of those remaining at the high table - Jon Arryn, Lomas Estermont and Olenna Tyrell along with others of their mature years - was largely upon the display in the centre of the hall. Only Olenna glanced aside at the two of them and then she sniffed disparagingly before looking back towards the king.

There was a small door to the rear of the great hall, leading to a stair that could be used to discreetly reach Maegor's Holdfast and Stannis' chamber, conveniently in the other direction from Robert's chambers in the White Sword Tower. As Stannis opened it, Ser Brynden Tully quietly moved up along with them and stood to screen them from view.

Looking back a moment, Stannis could see Gerion Lannister, Jorah Mormont and two other members of the Royal Guard pushing through the crowd around Robert and Alysanne, keeping grim and purposeful watch over them.

There was a familiar laugh, a startled cry from Alysanne and then Stannis saw the naked queen raised up above the crowd as an equally unclad Robert threw her over his shoulder and bounded away towards the door. "Aha!" he crowed. "She's mine, all mine!"

Stannis shook his head and went through the door, leaving it to Ser Brynden to close it behind them. Aemma touched his elbow and he automatically took her arm. Somehow he thought that the night to follow, while generally in the same purpose as his brother's, would also be very different. And perhaps that was not such a bad thing?

"My lady," he said to her quietly. "Mine."

Aemma reached up and took his chin with her free hand. "My lord. Mine."

They descended the stairway away from the noise and fuss of the hall on quick, some might say eager, feet.


	9. Chapter 9

**Tywin VII**

The Lord of Casterly Rock remembered the tourney, six months gone, in King’s Landing. Along with the jousting, the melee, the horse races and the archery, the King had enlivened the evenings by having the alchemists put on a display of coloured fires, some on the ground and others launched up into the sky with siege weapons from the walls. It had been a grand affair, celebrating the end of the first winter of Robert's reign.

As a precaution, all the displays had taken place out in Blackwater Bay with the populace watching in comfort from the seats around the bowl-like arena that had been constructed on top of what used to be Fleabottom.

Now there was another riot of fire on the waters, crimson and gold like those launched in honour of House Lannister on the night he had hosted that day's grand banquet.

But this wasn’t artistry or embellishment. Spring was ending and the first harvests were in. War called and this was Lannisport, ablaze with fires visible from the heights of Casterly Rock. The great port was burning and in its harbour the mighty (and expensive) warfleet of the Westerlands was dying impotently as the Ironborn ran amok.

"Tygett has the horse ready," Kevan informed him.

"Good." Tywin twisted from side to side, testing how far his armour would let him turn. Thus far, as it should. "Have Jaime take half of them north along the coast and check for outliers. Tygett is to do the same riding south."

Kevan nodded. "So I told them."

Where would we Lannisters be without Kevan? Tywin nodded to his brother and they went down the stairs towards the gates. "Ravens?"

"Ravens and riders both, although only to your own bannermen. The king..."

"The King will be told when I have a full report for him. I'm Warden of the West and he'll hear from me after the battle, not while it is undecided."

Out into the yard where their horses were waiting. At his raised hand the portcullis rattled upwards and with a grand cry, Tygett led the first of the horse out. Jaime, wearing golden armour but a properly crimson cape now and not the white of the Kingsguard, drew his blade and saluted before his own company followed.

Both men rode at the head of their men. Tygett was teaching Jaime his recklessness. Tywin himself would lead the second company of footmen, not the vanguard, and Kevan's men would come third.

Lannisport was still below as he rode out the gate. The spearheads of the footmen in the lead glittered with reflected flames. It was a mile to the city, more than that following the broad road that was safe even at this time of night and Tywin drove them as fast as he dared.

The gates were still in the right hands for they were closed until the vanguard and then swept open in time for the first men, crimson and gold banners standing unstained over the gatehouse towers. Tywin shifted aside, not entering until one of his officers signalled it was no trap. Such things could happen all too easily to an unwary leader.

Inside, the town the Lannister troops had to force their way past smallfolk as they flocked away from the harbour, carrying every valuable they could.

"Push them aside," Tywin ordered grimly. The way the fires were spreading, they had to get to the docks and contain both the fires and the Ironborn, or half the city would be destroyed.

The smallfolk protests were easily dealt with - once spears were lowered only a handful insisted on objecting to the point of being made object lessons.

The centre of the city was marked by the House of the Lannisters of Lannisport. It was a large mansion, obvious enough as a place to plunder that Tywin wasn't surprised to see Ironborn trying to get into it. The vanguard company weren't in any doubts as to how they should respond to that: it took a mere moment for them to spread out into a rough line and advance.

The Ironborn fought hard, but they were outnumbered, out-flanked and their initial response wasn't under any consistent direction. Despite the losses they inflicted, the tide went further and further against them.

Twyin moved aside and directed the second company to swing around the rear of the mansion and finish securing the area. "Kevan!" he called. "Take your men and move north. Save what you can and make sure we have a firebreak between the docks and the rest of the city. Don't take any chances with Ironborn offering surrender, their word is worthless."

Kevan touched his visor in salute then began giving the necessary orders.

Shaking his head at the destruction - down the broad avenue from the mansion to the docks, he was sure he could see the mighty war galley Lion of Lannister ablaze from bow to stern - Tywin waited for his men to finish exterminating the Ironborn present here so he could begin organising efforts in the south. Fortunately the geography of the city meant the northern districts were less exposed. With Kevan's usual efficiency at least half the city should be safe enough. The dockfronts and warehouses were being consumed by fire, but at least the stonework would survive as a foundation for rebuilding.

"I'll bring these fires to Pyke," he murmured, mentally composing a letter to the King.

* * *

  
**Olenna III**

“Expect a raven from Casterly Rock,” she informed the King as they sat in the Small Council chamber. “Not today, but tomorrow or the next day.”

Robert Baratheon was carrying more weight than he had when he first took the throne but there was nothing dull about the look he directed at her. “What news, Lady Olenna?”

“The Ironborn,” she informed him. “Balon Greyjoy’s Iron fleet savaged Lannisport and the Westerlands fleet is no more. They did this, I am told, in the name of the Iron King.”

“I hear you,” he said quietly. “Well, I cannot say I am surprised.”

“What’s this?” asked Jon as he arrived. “Is there news, Lady Olenna?”

“We’re at war, Jon. We’ll deal with our usual business today, but best we do so with an eye to my being out of the capital for at least the next year. I’ll be counting on you as my Hand and as the Warden of the East.”

Jon took a seat and listened to Olenna’s report. Then he shook his head. “With the Westerland fleet gone, there’s no one near enough to contest Balon except the Reach’s fleets and they do not love you, Robert.”

“They aren’t very fond of the Ironborn either. We’ll need to reinforce them from the east though. Can you spare half your fleet from Gulltown?”

“Aye. And Ned Stark’s bannerman, Lord Manderly – he has a good number of ships.”

“My own thinking exactly.” Robert looked to Lady Olenna. “Safe to say you’ve informed your nephew Paxter that he should be onguard.”

“For all that he’ll likely dismiss them as the whittering of an old lady.”

“His loss if he does. I’ll write to Randyll Tarly as well. And while I won’t ask Dorne for ships, Doran Martell is too canny not to want to blood this generation of his lords and knights.”

“You don’t expect he’ll make common cause with Balon?”

Olenna cawed at Jon’s concern. “Have more faith in the man!”

“Dornish honour isn’t a byword, my lady.”

“No, but their Prince is too canny to throw his support to such a feeble cause. Balon would be a weaker and less reliable ally than my son was when Doran served Aerys. He’ll stack the deck better before he moves.” She pursed her lips. “Mind, I would watch young Viserys carefully. Some might find this a convenient opportunity to remove him from your hands.”

“I’ll name him my squire,” Robert decided. “He’s old enough and the experience may do him good.”

Olenna nodded thoughtfully. She'd been watching Robert as a ruler for years, but this would be her first sight of him as warlord. He was famously something of a blunt instrument there but the Ironborn were grossly outnumbered and if it was merely bringing overwhelming forces to bear against them then a blunt instrument might be sufficient.

Still, what she was seeing now was more the cool administrator she'd grown accustomed to. "A kraken may be soft compared to a dragon," she warned, "But a stag doesn't swim so well or that's how I recall it from hunts that run a deer up against a river."

Robert nodded. "Stannis is utterly reliable and he knows who the best seamen are in the fleet. There's no use trying to decide on an exact route for the fleet until he's here to discuss it. However, the western coasts are the most vulnerable. If Balon takes Moat Cailin he'll cut most of the North off from the rest of us."

Calm. Confident. Not the fiery temprement she'd heard of from the Trident and previous battles. Had fatherhood cooled his temper? Certainly he doted on his daughters - Mya, Bella and his first legitimate daughter Cassana. Then again, he was almost as kindly disposed to little Daenerys Stormborn. Daughters were a weak spot for so many men.

Which wasn't to say he wasn't attentive to little Eddard but the boy was the apple of his mother's eye, a crown prince, and perhaps it wasn't a bad thing to have the heir have to work a little for his father's approval. Perhaps Mace would have turned out better if Luthor hadn't... well, spilt milk now.

"We'll assemble the eastern armies at Harrenhal," Robert decided. "It's near enough to the Kingsroad and central enough we can get there without difficulty and the Gods know it's large enough to shelter an army."

Jon nodded. "It's fortunate that you had the roads repaired before winter. The armies from the Reach and Dorne to gather at Lannisport?"

"That makes sense. It's too early to say if we can use it as a port for the assembled fleets, but Lord Tywin will no doubt want to use his home as his initial base of operations. I'll need to leave you here, of course."

"Of course, your grace."

"I'll take five hundred King's Men with me, but you'll have Lord Bolton's City Watch to support you and I think we can authorise raising another five hundred King's Men to replace those I take with me."

"Now that harvests are coming in and the treasury is refilling, I agree." Jon tapped the map he was examining. "You intend that Ned and Lord Tully guard their coasts first and only muster what they can spare from that?"

"Basically. Where do you suggest they assemble?"

"Seagard. It's as close as the Riverlands have to a major western port."

Robert nodded. "Right. And now for the bit I'm dreading."

"Finding out if you fit into your armour?" asked Olenna.

The king chuckled. "I will miss your humour, dear lady. No, telling the girls I won't be reading them bedtime stories for a year or so. My daughters will be terribly disappointed in me."

* * *

  
**Ned VII**

In the south the spring was well advanced but in the North it was barely taking hold. Robert, thankfully, was generosity incarnate and a trickle of ships had carried food north to supplement the stockpiles. Ned had a quiet suspicion that his father would have made a better job of preparing the North for the winter but the shipments of grain, salt meat and even fruit from the Summer Isles had warmed the hearts of the northerners to both Ned and to his foster-brother.

Even Roose Bolton received some of the credit, for his new wife brought him ties to the Easterlands and the first fruits of the Stokeworth lands had been shared with the Dreadfort.

Even so, Ned had gone to the godswood and prayed that the first harvest would be a good one. If it wasn't then even established holdings would be suffering. Despite Benjen's hard work around Queenscrown he was already seeing a trickle of disenchanted bannermen. Lyanna hadn't said as much about the Longlake villages, but they had more northerners amid them. Barristan's Holdfast was somewhere between the two and he knew that Lord Selmy had dug deep into his pockets to have additional food sent north from Oldtown and Arbor.

"Our ways of farming haven't changed in centuries, and they've seen us through many a harsh winter, my lord." Martyn Cassel had reported to what Ned still thought of as his father's solar to discuss options for the next planting. Having lost his sword arm, the former master-at-arms had taken up the plough instead, assisting Ned in managing the Stark lands around Winterfell. "If these suggestions from the south go awry, we could seriously reduce our food supplies for next winter."

"You're right to be concerned, Martyn. And even King Robert advised trying these cautiously. But this is the best opporunity we'll have - once our first harvest in, we should still have at least a year before the next winter. If we clear new fields and try these methods on them, we'll know in a year or two if there's merit to them?"

"And if there's none?"

"If there's none, Martyn, we've put time and effort into trying to better feed our people. If I ignore this and even one of the methods suggested in this book -" Ned thumped the slim volume "- would have worked, then people may die next winter that we could have saved. It's worth a try."

Martyn scratched the stump of his arm. "Well, King Robert's ships have helped. Not many Kings have done as much for us. Saving the Stark Kings, of course," he finished quickly.

Ned deicded to ignore the comment. "We'll also see about expanding the glass gardens. Pulling that old tower down has given us some space to work with and every little helps."

There was a knock on the door of the solar.

"Come!"

Maester Luwin pushed the door open. "Your pardon, Lord Stark, a raven's arrived from King's Landing."

"It's only been a week since the last," Ned said in surprise. Robert was meticulous about writing regularly, sending ravens once a month - just another way that becoming King had changed him. Although his handwriting was still terrible.

Without a word, Luwin placed the thin parchment upon Ned's desk for him to read.

A chill crept into Ned's bones as he did so and he saw Martyn pale at the sight of his face. "I see. I'll need to send some messages of my own, I hope the ravens are well fed and watered, Luwin."

"They are, my lord."

"What news?" asked Martyn.

Ned glanced down at the message again. "War," he said simply. "Robert is calling the banners."

"Is it the Dornish or the Reach?"

"Neither. Balon Greyjoy has attacked the Westerlands."

"I don't suppose the King can let that pass."

Ned gave him a patient look.

"I suppose our coasts could be next," he admitted grudgingly.

"Maester, I need two sets of letters drawn up. Firstly, to the western Houses, warning them to watch for raiders. Include House Reed in that. All the other houses are to send their forces to muster at Moat Cailin." He grimaced. "We'll need to rebuild some of the walls there - if the Ironborn come up the Fever River they might be able to attack it from the north."

"If I take a hundred men south now we could reach the Neck in a matter of days."

"No Martyn." Ned looked his friend in the eye, careful not to let his eye go to the stump of his arm. "I need you here. Catelyn's with child and there are young Robb and Sansa to think about. Rodrik will ride south with me this time, I'll be entrusting you with my family."

* * *

  
**Viserys I**

The usurper sat behind his desk, one heaped with parchments. Other than Ser Gerion of the Royal Guards - Viserys forced himself to cool disdain towards the treacherous Lannister - they were alone.

"Do you know why I've called you here?"

Viserys grimaced. It was the same question he'd been asked on every other visit he'd been called here. A not inconsiderable number of those visits had ended with Viserys in tears of pain and humiliation that he had to wipe away before being marched out of the tower to make a grovelling apology to whoever he was deemed to have wronged.

As much as he hated it, he'd learned to keep the dragon's wrath chained. The fury of a stag was thus far armed with a stronger arm and more immediate support.

Still, he couldn't recall anything he'd done that seemed likely to draw the usurper's eye. "I'm sure you have your reasons," he said neutrally.

"Most everyone has a reason, good or bad, for their actions. It seems you've learned something of the art of making bland statements to cover for ignorance. Not a bad skill to learn around the court." He frowned. "Tell me about the Iron Islands."

Viserys blinked. "...there are seven major islands with twenty four smaller ones around them. They were part of the Kingdom of the Isles and the Rivers until my ancestor Aegon burned Harrenhal and ended the line of the Hoares. Although the Riverlands bowed to Aegon under the leadership of the Tullys, the Isles resisted for two further years before Aegon invaded them and forced their submission. The House Greyjoy have ruled the isles since then. Unless you're interested in their mines there isn't much of interest there."

Robert nodded. "Also fighting seamen. Like them or loathe them, there are few cowards on the Isles."

"Oh, they don't worship the Seven or the Old Gods," Viserys remembered. "There's a Drowned God they worship."

"Some of them, yes." The usurper poured out two goblets of wine and pushed one over to Viserys. "Drink, boy."

Viserys took the goblet cautiously, swirled the contents and then sniffed it before drinking. It was well watered but drinkable.

"Balon Greyjoy does not worship any gods. He worships what he considers the Old Ways: reaving, ravaging and raping. Have you heard of the iron price?"

"I don't recall it."

"To pay the iron price, as the Ironborn would call it, is to take with your own hand from the body of your victims. Men who believe in that way are famine, plague and ruin on a prosperous kingdom. House Hoare, the most successful rulers of the Islands, cared very little for the Drowned God or for the 'old ways'. It isn't a lesson that this Greyjoy has learned, unlike his father."

"Quellon Greyjoy supported you," Viserys remembered.

"Little and late, but yes. His sons persuaded him to raid the Reach once your brother was dead and the war was all but won. Quellon died and I had no cause then to move against Balon."

Viserys rolled that around his mind. There was something... "But you do now?"

"But now I do. He has named himself king and fought a battle at Lannisport. Do you think I should allow this?"

The last Targaryen lord frowned and said nothing.

"Hmm. I must remember to ask that when you're making a fuss. I can't, of course. Let Greyjoy go on his way, fail to support my loyal lords and soon enough Westeros will collapse into a good half-dozen realms. This is not a challenge I can refuse." Robert smiled thinly. "I'm told you're a decent rider and show some promise with a sword."

The better to end you, someday. "I'm told so."

"I expect no less from my squire."

"Your squire!"

Robert shook his head, long black hair shaking loose from the braid he had worn of late. "I would think you have more reasons than one to learn of war, cousin. Just as I have more than one reason to teach you on that subject."

"And if I decline to fight for you... cousin?"

"Why then I shall express publically my disappointment that you lack the courage of your more valiant ancestors. You would not want that reputation, would you?"

"I would not," Viserys managed, through clenched teeth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Jon VIII**

The great table on the first floor of the White Sword Tower was covered in platters of food. Fine grained bread, fresh vegetables and cuts of meat saved from the previous night's feast. More meat and vegetables were in the form of a rich stew, a large bowl of which had been carried across from the kitchens and simmered on the room's stove.

Lysa didn't care for these informal meals but Jon found them a pleasant change. Still, without her there was plenty of room around the table, even with eight chairs rather than the original seven.

"The servants think you're very strange to send them away when we dine." Bella observed to her father, doling out the stew into a bowl for him.

Robert grinned broadly and patted the girl on the head. "I am very strange," he said cheerfully. "Goodness, I hope you're not as slow as your sister, Cassana," he added, moving his hand to the head of the little girl sat next to him. "All these years and she hasn't noticed something like that?"

The little girl made a noise that could have been agreement - or the reverse - and dug her spoon into the bowl already before her.

Jon sighed. There was a familiar pain to seeing Robert and Alysanne surrounded by children. Until Cassana had been born, he'd wondered if Robert was over-reacting and lavishing care on Mya and Bella that Alysanne reasonably did not. The truth, he'd realised, was that Robert cared for all his children - in his way.

Bella isn't so slow, he thought. I all but raised you, Robert - and after so many years I still don't understand what's going on inside your head.

Across the table, Alysanne shook her head at her husband's behaviour. "I believe the word that that Lord Florent used to describe your father was eccentric, Bella."

"What does that mean, your grace?" asked Mya, wrinkling her brow.

"Strange," Alysanne admitted, filling a spoon with the broth of the stew for Eddard, who sat on her lap and regarded everyone with a wide-eyed look and probably very little comprehension.

"No, no," Daenerys proclaimed. "It means you're strange and have money!"

"Oh, you remember that?" asked Robert ruefully. "Memory and wearing shoes - you are wearing shoes?"

The little Targaryen nodded.

Robert sighed. "By the time we're back, you'll probably be reading too."

Jon saw Daenerys shoot a sidelong look at her brother. "Do you have to leave, cousin Robert?"

"Being a king... or a lord, or a father for that matter... means sometimes needing to do things you may not want to do," he replied carefully.

Viserys looked as if he'd bitten his tongue.

Reluctantly, Jon set down his stew and the bread he'd dipped in it. "Viserys, if we could step outside for a moment."

The boy understood that it was an order, not a request although he defiantly grabbed a carrot from one of the bowls. Washed in boiled water, according to Robert's odd preference. Jon didn't care for that - his teeth weren't as sound as they used to be.

They went up stairs to the next floor, which was divided into six small chambers that had once been the private chambers of the Kingsguard. "If he didn't want to be king," snarled Viserys - careful not to shout loud enough to be heard downstairs "Why did he kill father?"

There's no point arguing over trivia. Viserys knew the facts of the matter but they weren't more than details. Robert would have killed Aerys, just as surely as he had killed Rhaegar. And that had been the result of a screaming match that Robert hadn't punished the boy for.

If a man can't be angry for his father's death, he'd said when Jon asked him, then why did Ned and I come here in the first place.

Another tangled recollection but now, with winter between them and the Rebellion, it's sinking into the realm of songs and causes.

"Your father summoned him to King's Landing to kill him," he reminded Viserys. "He and Ned together. From the moment that raven winged its way to the Eyrie, it was death for Aerys or death for Robert. And with your father's line discounted, no one else had as good a claim to the throne as Robert."

"He talks like he hates being king."

"He likes the privileges and hates the responsibilities." Jon shrugged. "Your father felt about the same way and dealt with it all by handing the responsibilities over to Tywin Lannister. Robert... deals with it differently."

"Of course you'd be on his side."

"Of course I would be." Jon reached over and clapped Viserys on his shoulder. "Let's go back down before the stew is cold. And in the morning, see Ser Brynden about your sword and your armour. You'll need to be sure it's all in good condition when you go to war."

Down the stairs again and there were plates across the top of their stew bowls. "Papa said it would keep your stew warm," Cassana explained. "Do you think uncle Renly will read stories to us like you, papa?"

"Well you can ask him when he and Stannis arrive," Robert told the girls.

Renly will probably prefer it to going to war, Jon thought. As if his brothers would agree to all three of them being on the same battlefield. "Maybe he's old enough to squire for me," he suggested.

"Only if you tell Stannis," Robert said quickly.

* * *

  
**Barristan III**

Barristan Selmy had thus far always arrived at and departed his holdfast through the lands of House Ryswell, his southern neighours, and to ride west was new to him, although the Stony Shore was directly downriver of the lakes north and south of the tower he'd made a home for Ashara and their son, Duncan.

"The Ironborn struck here before," Lord Willem Dustin advised as they road along the riverside, followed by the levy of fighting men that had rallied to the name of Barristan the Bold. Although the scarred lord ruled Barrowton, with it's own outlet to the Saltspear, he had ridden west to advise his onetime comrade. "At one time the Hoares ruled much of the western shore of the North but by Torrhen's day they'd been driven off."

"I hear tell of the Fisher Kings once reigning in these lands."

"Aye," agreed Willem. "But House Fisher bowed the knee to Winterfell and their last lords were slain centuries ago. There are no great lords on the Stony Shore, only small houses - knightly by the standards of the southern lands."

Barristan nodded in understanding. It was thus that lands had been open for Lord Stark to grant to he and Ashara. A quiet land, or it would have been save for Balon Greyjoy. And remote enough that there would not be suspicion the old affection between Ashara and the northerner she'd once been sweet for might rekindle. "These hills could be good horse country."

"After a fashion, but southern chargers find the North hard." Dustin patted his own horse, smaller and with a shaggier coat than Barristan's mount. "I'm surprised you saw a horse like that all through winter."

"We had to heat the stables," admitted Barristan. "I let smallfolk shelter there too, to make best use of the fires."

"Hmm. Well I suppose you don't have much livestock yet."

"Dornish horses are bred to cope with the heat of day and the chill of night. Perhaps I should speak to the Daynes and see if I can buy some with King Robert's gold. If I can breed destriers hardy enough for northern winters, that would enrich my lands."

"I would buy some," Willem agreed. "The Barrow knights have ever been the best horsemen of the north - we would not wish to be outmatched by some latecomer."

"Your folk are not from the south, like the Manderlys, I gather. How is it that you practise knighthood?"

"Oh, you are right. But we Dustins and the Flints have always had closer ties to the south than our neighbours. We do not worship the Seven, but enough of our young men fostered or went to war south of the Neck that the practise spread north."

Barristan nodded his understanding. "Since we speak of fostering?"

"Oh?"

"It is too early for our sons to be fostered, but I would like for my son Duncan to foster with a Northern House. Ashara and I are outsiders to too many."

"Ah, I had not thought." Willem frowned. "My goodfather Rodrik Ryswell has offered to foster Mark when he is old enough. If you would write to him, I shall add a note saying I favour the idea of our sons fostering together. I think he would like the idea, although he will want some favour in return. Perhaps a horse from your future herds?"

"I haven't even bred them yet!"

"Well if the idea has merit..." The northern lord chuckled. "Although even if you had scores of warhorses it might matter little in this war, my friend. No horse can swim from the mainland to the Iron Islands. For that we will need ships."

"Aye, and there are few in the west I gather?"

"The Manderlys are the only northern house with any number ships and they are all in the East."

"Could they be portaged past Moat Cailin, perhaps? I do not know the lands but according to the maps the swamps of the Neck reach almost to the head of the Fever River?"

There was a laugh. "Ah, you do not not know the lands, Ser Barristan. The Neck's swamps are far too shallow for any ships and the hills around the Fever river are hardly possible for men on foot, much less hauling a ship. No, such a route would be impossible. Besides which, half the crews would take ill - the river is well named. Any Manderly ships we will see must come to us by way of the Summer Sea. Not a short voyage."

Barristan nodded. He remembered Aerys had once considered cutting a canal across the Neck but grown bored of the idea. Probably Lord Tywin had realised the difficulties involved and arranged to divert the King's attention. He had been erratic even as a young man.

* * *

  
**Stannis VIII**

King's Landing didn't smell noticeably better than it had when Stannis first arrived with Renly. There had been some changes though - masons continued to work on the tourney grounds and the Dragonpit. Stannis would have hoped that some could be spared for Renly's seat at Summerhall or his own keep. On the other hand, the Roseroad had been repaired and improved all the way to Bitterbridge as Robert had promised - so if he could get a promise of help with the castles then he could probably count on it.

"Renly's too young to go to war," he warned Jon Arryn when the Hand met them at the gates to the Red Keep.

"I can do it! You need a squire!" the boy insisted.

Jon glanced at Stannis. "Actually, Prince Renly, I'm the one in need of a squire. With your brothers off at war, it'll fall to me to protect your goodsister Alysanne and Robert's children."

That was delicately put, Stannis thought.

Renly made a face. "Stay with the children, you mean. Can't Viserys do that?"

"Viserys isn't family," Stannis told him. "One of us needs to stay in King's Landing to represent House Baratheon."

"And you'll be doing important work for me, governing the Kingdoms." Jon patted Renly on the shoulder. "We'll need to get you a tunic to show you're acting for the Hand... and some new shirts, you've grown at least two inches since those were made for you and it shows."

Stannis' eyes narrowed. Renly was easily bribed with new clothes - but if Jon was manipulating him then what strings was he pulling on Robert? He'd have thought his elder brother was easily diverted by wine and women, but seeing him on the throne had shown otherwise.

"I need to speak to Ser Davos," he said outloud.

Jon nodded. "I believe he'll be at the docks by this hour. He has been hard at work readying the fleet."

Stannis acknowledged this with a nod. "Renly."

The boy looked at him and Stannis nodded. "Be good."

Renly rolled his eyes. "Yes, Stannis."

Mounting his horse again, Stannis rode down Aegon's Hill and across Fishmonger's Square to the River Gate. The King's Men manning the gatehouse still wore undyed cloaks but over the winter Robert had found the money to equip them with leather coats, reinforced with metal plates riveted over the vitals.

Davos Seaworth was overseeing the loading of spars and sails onto a round-bilged coastal trading ship. Compared to the low, lean hull of a war-galley the short hull ratio made the ship look clumsy but it was handy enough on open water and the supplies aboard would be vital for maintaining the fleet on its voyage around Westeros. No galley of similar size could carry the same tonnage of material.

"Prince Stannis!" the Onion Knight called as he saw Stannis approach. He whipped off his hat and bowed, drawing attention from around the docks. The sailors didn't halt their labours though, Stannis noted approvingly. This wasn't the court and it was more important that they did their job than pander to his pride.

"Davos." He dismounted. "How is the fleet?"

"All but three ships have been assembled, my lord. Those would be the galleys which were escorting the King's bounty to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I left orders at Widow's Watch for them to join forces with the Arryn and Manderly ships at Gulltown."

"Good. And the rest?"

"There are forty-eight war galleys here at King's Landing and sixty-three ships without oars. Twenty-two more galleys and twelve transports are fitting out at Duskendale and will be ready to sail within seven days. We may need as many as twelve for the ships here. To clear the docks I've sent twenty ships ahead to Greenstone under Ser Aemon, along with seven of the new galleys."

Stannis nodded. "Not Robert's folly?"

Davos nodded ruefully. "The King's paddle galley isn't fit for service, my lord. With the king's agreement I'm having the wheels removed from the sides and she can still serve well enough as a normal galley. It's unlikely she'll be ready for this voyage though. Pending your approval I've appointed Aurane Waters as her captain and assigned him to secure Blackwater Bay while the rest of the fleet is in the west."

"I suppose not all my brother's clever ideas will work out."

"The new sail-plans have worked well," admitted Davos. "And if we can find enough copper I think that he's onto something when it comes to sheathing the hulls. A clean hull could make all the difference is speed and reduce the time we spend careening."

"We don't have time for that now." Stannis saw a crate not being moved and used it as an impromptu table for a chart. "Greenstone is fine as an initial port for the fleets to assemble at, we don't want ships hazarding Shipbreaker Bay. I want to stop the fleet at Planky Town to remind the Dornish of their place"

"It wouldn't be a bad rallying point, my lord." Davos traced a line on the chart. "And then to the Whispering Sound?"

"Why not the Arbor?"

"The Redwynes have a fine port," the sailor admitted. "But they'll be using it for fitting out their own ships. Oldtown is the largest city in the south and we can make good any repairs that may be needed there. It may be wise to send the ships in smaller squadrons, to get them used to the discipline."

Stannis nodded. "We'll assemble the full fleet at Greenstone and then organise them into squadrons once the Manderly and Arryn fleets join up. I take your point - if we keep the ships together then one storm could smash them all at once."

* * *

  
**Varys III**

Varys admired the broadsheet before him. His little flowers were hard at work digging up stories that would tittilate, not to mention the occasional matter of more magnitude, some of which he even allowed to be printed.

When he looked up from the table there were two men in his most private chamber. He hadn't invited them and they both had their hands on swords. Really it was just like old times.

"Lord Connington, Ser Arthur. Welcome to Pentos, my friends."

"We aren't friends," Dayne growled. The Sword of Morning still wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Really, it was as if the man wasn't even trying. Varys had had three reports of his arrival the previous day. It was entirely probable that Robert Baratheon knew by now, he had at last two spies in Pentos that Varys was aware of.

Hmmm. Would it be unreasonable to put a small article in the next broadsheet? After all, King Robert had a subscription...

"After all the years we've know each other?" he asked Arthur mildly. "You wound me."

Jon Connington held a hand up before Arthur Dayne could respond further. "Please excuse Ser Arthur's temper. We have had a long voyage from Volantis." The one-time Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King at least dressed the part of a common sell-sword and with hair dyed blue.

"I don't like to travel myself," admitted Varys. "Please, sit down. I hope your families are well?"

"Young Griff is in the care of good friends. And Ser Arthur has two nephews since you last met."

"Ah yes, Edric Dayne and Duncan Selmy. Would you like them announced? Certain of the more distinguished families in Pentos and Braavos feel there's a certain cachet in having births, deaths and marriages made public through my good offices." People just... gave him this information. Without even seeking recompense. Remarkable.

"Don't put yourself out." Dayne leant over the desk. "Tell us about Greyjoy."

"Hmm? Lord Quellon has been dead some five years now, as with his son Urrigon. The new lord of the Iron Islands is Balon, who has three living brothers, three sons and a daughter. I don't make announcements about Westerosi families often as there's little interest here..."

"Don't -!" The knight thumped the table vigorously.

"You could certainly kill me, Ser Arthur," Varys cut him off, "But you might find it harder to escape the building and harder still to depart Pentos. And if you are identified as my killer, well there's a substantial sum held by the Iron Bank of Braavos to arrange certain consequences for my death."

Connington rolled his eyes. "We're not here to harm you, Lord Varys. But since the news has reached us, far to the east, you must be aware that Balon Greyjoy is in rebellion against the Iron Throne."

"There is no longer an Iron Throne, something we must all adjust to." Varys relaxed back into his chair. "But yes, my little flowers - such as remain in Westeros - have advised me that Balon now styles himself King of the Iron Islands. You will have heard that Lannisport was burned, I imagine?"

"And what do you make of his chances?"

Varys pursed his lips. "I am neither a knight nor a general, my lord. However, the ability of a few islands to resist an entire continent seems... questionable."

"The Iron Fleet is formidable. And if the Usurper dies in battle..."

"Then a regency would exist for his son. If he dies, as children sometimes do, Stannis Baratheon has been groomed as a potential successor. And then there is a third brother who will be kept safely away from the war." Varys shook his head. "You may wish to consider how the Iron Fleet was built."

Both men frowned in confusion and Varys refrained from sighing. Really, was thought so difficult? "The Iron Islands aren't known for their trees, gentlemen. Without access to the woods of the mainland it will be very hard for Lord Greyjoy to replace his losses. Meanwhile Robert Baratheon has shipyards in the east that can replace anything lost, given time. Whether he wins or loses the first battle at sea, it is very unlikely he will lose the last battle at sea."

"Then there is no hope?"

"A decisive Baratheon victory would solidify the new dynasty's position. A drawn out conflict could perhaps weaken them in the long run." Varys slipped his hands into his sleeves. "Show patience my friends. The Seven Kingdoms would hardly welcome a child upon whatever throne you wish to replace that of Aegon the Conqueror. Until a Targaryen is of age to rule the game is one of waiting."

"Says the Spider in his web."

Varys eyes met Ser Arthur's. "Says the knight who walked into that web," he reminded the Dornishman mildly. "I would remind you that you were fully pardoned of wrongdoing. Out of the three of us, you are the only one who can return to Westeros and move freely. That being the case I have to wonder why you are in Essos at all."

It was the Sword of Morning who looked away first.

"He was keeping me informed of events there," Connington advised. "My first direct information since the winter."

"And I wanted to meet the boy."

"Of course." Varys bowed his head. "We are all pleased that he thrives."

"One day the Usurper will regret that."

"I would not venture to speculate as to his thinking, but you may very well be right." He gave them a cool stare. "Is there anything else I can help you with? Most particularly anything so pressing I can't go on with my daily affairs? One likes to pay attention to one's employees..."


	11. Chapter 11

**Ned VIII**

Since the Westerlands were the first targets of the Ironborn, Ned wasn't surprised to learn that Benjen had brought almost a hundred of his swornswords south to join the muster. Queenscrown couldn't support many armsmen yet and formally their obligations were to support the wall and not the Starks. Nonetheless, the Ironborn's burning of Lannisport had cut close to home for a number of the Westerlanders who had settled on what had been the New Gift.

Since Longlake was on the road south from Queenscrown, the column being a mix of Lyanna's men and Benjen's was only good sense and he'd not held any hope out that Lyanna wouldn't accompany them.

Seeing Cersei Lannister on a warhorse beside his sister was definitely a surprise, as was the mail shirt she was wearing.

"What's she doing?" hissed Catelyn.

"I suppose we'll have to ask." He walked forwards. "Benjen! Lyanna!"

Lyanna scrambled down and hugged him, while Benjen turned and helped his wife dismount. "Ned!" She lowered her voice. "Don't worry, we left the boys at Long Lake. All three of them will be safe there."

"And our goodsister?"

Lyanna laughed. "She heard about the Mormont women and decided she wasn't going to be left behind."

Still on his brother's arm (and wobbling a little as she walked), Cersei showed no other sign of discomfort. "Prince Eddard, Princess Catelyn. It's my pleasure to meet you again."

"The pleasure is ours, Cersei," Cateleyn said smoothly. "Please, don't dwell on titles, we are all family here."

"Thank you, Catelyn."

It was young Robb, standing beside Ned, who asked the obvious question. "Why are you wearing armour?"

Cersei leant slightly more heavily on Benjen. "Your uncle wouldn't agree to let me go to war with him unless I wore it."

"But no one's going to attack you here, Aunt Cersei."

"It takes some time to get used to wearing armour, Robb," Ned explained. "We've made some quarters ready and I'm sure you're more than ready for warm baths."

"Oh gods, yes." Cersei let Lyanna and Catelyn guide her away and Ned gave Benjen a sceptical look.

"I thought it would deter her!" his younger brother hissed. "The closest she's been to war was the tourney at Harrenhal and hitting at sticks with her brother!"

"You aren't actually going to take her to war, are you?"

"I promised her that if she wore armour she could come with me." Benjen shook his head. "I didn't realise she'd be so stubbon - by the time we got to Long Lake I was sure she'd never want to see that mail shirt again."

"And if she was staying at Long Lake you thought you could convince Lyanna to stay with her?"

"I didn't have much hope on that score," Benjen said sourly. "I can probably persuade her to visit Casterly Rock rather than sail to the Iron Islands when the time for that comes."

By unspoken accord the two brothers left the yard and walked towards the Godswood. "How well are things going up at Queenscrown?"

Benjen considered. "It was looking bad for a while. I warned the southerners who came north with Cersei about what winter would be like but I don't think they believed me. Fortunately Cersei is good at handling them."

"And how is she managing?"

"I think she was having doubts until Joffwyn was born." Benjen puffed up like the proud father he was. "He's a good boy, although Cersei spoils him a little. It might do him good to stay at Long Lake for a while."

"Will you bring him down to Winterfell once the war is done? Introduce him to his other cousins?"

"Of course! And what are you feeding Robb? He's growing like a weed!"

"Just the usual. It seemed to work for us, after all."

"Aye. And your daughter - word was that she's Lyanna all over again?"

"In looks," Ned allowed. "She isn't as wild as Lyanna was - I think."

Both men chuckled at that, glanced around to ensure their sister hadn't overheard them and then met each other's eyes.

"It's good to see you again, Ben."

"Aye, and to see you Ned. Now I'll ride south and meet Robert again. Although it's hard to picture the roisterer you brought here that time as a wise and sagacious king."

"Well, I have trouble seeing him like that myself. But he's a goodhearted man and I think it's that he wants to do well by the Kingdoms. There are worse starts for a king."

"I was worried for a bit when I heard he'd given Lord Bolton a position, have you heard aught of him? You know the old stories of the Dreadfort."

"Those days were long ago. Bolton does well in the south - he's wed, I don't know if you heard?"

"No! Again? To a southern woman?"

"Aye, one of the Stokeworth heiresses." Ned saw his brother's blank look. "The Stokeworths' land is just north of King's Landing, near the King's Road. It's a good marriage."

* * *

  
**Viserys II**

"There are excellent latrines in the camps - they were dug for the road repairs - so for the love of the Gods, use them!" Robert scowled at the assembled lords. "I do not want half the army down with the shits. If I find out someones got his pants around his ankles anywhere else in the camp then I don't care if he's taking a crap or shagging one of the smallfolk, they'll be named and shamed before the army before they're allowed to belt themselves up. And flogged if that's what it takes."

This wasn't exactly the sort of conversation that the bards spoke of when discussing war. It was, however, more than typical of the meetings Viserys had stood through, behind and to one side of the Usurper.

"At times I'll have you fetch and carry for me," Robert had explained the duties of being his squire. "The rest of the time, watch and listen because there's no better education for war."

Now the man glared after the lords filtering out of his small encampment. "Fools," he said quietly. "But perhaps no more than I myself." He glanced at Viserys. "So how are you enjoying war, cousin?"

"I'm rather wondering when I'll learn something about war rather than... bread and boots and..."

"And shit?" asked Robert sardonically. "Very well, I shall teach you something of war. Walk with me."

They left the small perimeter around Robert's tents. It was no more than a low wattle fence marking out his headquarters - the King's tent was no better than that of anyone else, save that he shared it only with Viserys and two of the Royal Guards, not ten or eleven more.

"Strategy is not complicated," he was lectured. "It is very little more than an objective: in this case to march up the Riverlands and join forces with other companies until we reach the coast and can spread out to reinforce the defenses of castles and towns there. Until Stannis arrives with the fleet, that's really all that we can do. So much for strategy."

"What about tactics?"

"Tactics are a variable, but until you know the battleground there's little you can do except keep in mind the capabilities of your troops and those of the enemy. Somewhat important but not immediately relevant."

They had walked past the tents of the King's Men and were now among the supply wagons, loaded with disassembled siege weapons. "What a war really hinges on, nine times out of ten, is supplies. Any fool can raise an army - all you need to do is be born in a suitable family. The trick is to feed it, arm it, clothe it and to do so not at a castle or city where the requirements are at hand but on the road, miles from anywhere. If you can do that and your opponent can't then you have a profound advantage."

"Advantage," he said again. "That's what matters, Viserys. Stack up the advantages on your side: position, numbers, training, morale, more and better food, less disease... and then you're unlikely to lose a battle. And the way to get those advantages is to pay close attention to those details."

"That doesn't sound very knightly."

Robert stopped and leant against the side of one of the wagons. "Knights predominantly wear heavy armour, ride large horses and fight with lances, right?"

Viserys nodded uncertainly.

"Tactically speaking, that's ideal for breaking up poorly disciplined infantry. Like a smallfolk revolt, for example. I don't know for certain but I suspect that the tradition of the knight dates back to Andal lords busy beating First Folk conquests back into line. Charge into the mob, break their will, hunt them down as they run." He paused. "I suppose as the heir to such traditions I should admire that but the tools for beating up smallfolk aren't quite the same as those for a serious war."

"But didn't the Storm Kings make peace with the Andals?"

"Only after the vast majority of what were later the Storm Lands had been conquered. Ancient history I suppose." Robert shook his head. "But I suppose what you mean is knights who are brave, chivalrous and noble. Who see war as a sort of tournament where glory and wealth can be won but no one important is ever hurt."

"Except the villains."

"Oh, I stand corrected." The black-haired man laughed sourly. "No one is a villain in their own eyes. Your father probably thought he was securing his throne and while I've no damn idea what your brother thought he was going to accomplish, I'm sure he didn't see himself as a villain."

"Rhaegar wasn't a villain," snapped Viserys.

"He was a gods-damned fool. If he'd kept his damn head then he'd be king now and I'd have had about half as many headaches."

His squire stared at him.

The usurper sighed. "Fine, fine. I doubt you'll ever believe me on that one. Let's go back to my tent. No doubt I have more letters to -" He broke off.

Looking around, Viserys couldn't see any cause for alarm. The man's eyes were fixed on one of the cart horses being unharnessed. "Sir?"

"I'm a bloody idiot," Robert muttered. "Right. Letters. And while I'm at it, designing a horse collar that won't strangle the poor beasts."

"If you say so," Viserys said dubiously.

"If the horses can pull the carts better they can carry more supplies and that makes it easier to keep the army fed. Little things like that can decide battles, or were you ignoring everything I just said?"

"No but... why are you teaching me how to wage war when..."

"When you might use those skills against me?"

Viserys nodded reluctantly.

"Well you might not use them against me too. I don't think it'd be fair for me to punish you for something you haven't done so far. And who knows: one day you might succeed the throne. I'd rather that if you manage that it wasn't as a complete incompetent. It would make me look bad to be deposed by an idiot."

* * *

  
**Tywin VIII**

"I have the harbour being cleared and our defenses restored," Kevan reported drily. "We won't have more than a handful of galleys ready before the Royal fleet and the Redwynes are expected, but at least we'll be able to accomodate them."

"It's a start." Tywin looked to Jaime. His heir was... not quite what he had hoped for in administration, but he was certainly a formidable warrior and made a strong impression on the bannermen. If it was not ideal, it was far from a disaster. And perhaps Kevan's sons would be as loyal and able as their father. "How does the muster stand?"

Jaime studied the map. "We're forming smaller armies at the major holdings along the coast. Four or five thousand men at Banefort, The Crag, Faircastle, Kayce and Crakehall. Besides the eight thousand here, there are another ten thousand from assorted levies still marching from the more eastern lords. We could ask for more, but with the first few harvests still coming in after winter even the most loyal lords don't want to take too many off the fields."

"We could probably do with dividing those levies and placing them at... at where Tarbeck Hall and Castermere once stood," Tygett warned. "There are still smallfolk on those lands and they look to Casterly Rock for protection now."

"A good point," Tywin agreed. "But Jaime, move half the levies from Kayce to Feastfires. The Kennings are loyal enough, but their merchants may need to be reminded of their place. Two thousand men should be enough to hold Kayce long enough to be reinforced if need be." The merchants of Kayce had tried to take advantage of Tytos Lannister's generosity.

Jaime nodded. "I'll send a raven."

"The North and the Riverlands have also reinforced their coasts," Tywin informed them. "The Ironborn attacked Seagard to try to destroy the Riverlands' only port. Since they'd heard what happened here, the Mallisters were on guard. The Ironborn were repelled with significant losses, including one of Balon's sons."

"They knew they could come under attack," noted Tygett.

"That's the purpose of having defenses. I'm displeased with our cousins of Lannisport. If they cannot redeem themselves, I can grant them less vital lands and appoint a new lord over Lannisport." Tywin swept the room with a fierce gaze. "Our House does not prosper when it is subject to mockery."

"And are we being mocked?"

Tywin thought back to the King's recent letters. "Not in King's Landing. But it would be well that once the Dornish and Reachman levies reach the Westerlands that they should see no sign of weakness. Can Lannisport be ready by then, Kevan?"

"It can." His brother folded his arms. "I've put Tyrion to the task."

"You left him with wine and whores, Kevan. Make sure it'll be done."

"I left him overseeing the raising of the Lion of Lannister. The upperworks are gone but the hull itself may be salvagable. He's doing good work."

Tywin met his brother's eyes and then glanced at his son. "Hmm. Very well. If he can restore it, tell him he's assigned as its new captain."

Tygett stirred. "He's young."

"Either he's ready for responsibility, or he isn't we will see." He dismissed the matter. "Cersei writes that she is riding south with her husband and he's persuaded her that staying at Casterly Rock would be better than joining the army. She can help Genna and Leyla oversee the household while we are at war."

"I'm sure they'll be glad of the help."

"I doubt it, but Genna has Cersei's measure." Tywin stared at Jaime until the boy looked away. "Cersei is your sister, but Leyla bears your heir. The future of the Lannisters matters more than the heirs to a northern lordship. I've heard no ill reports from Queenscrown, I don't expect any from here while I'm away."

"So you'll be joining the King's army then?"

"I'm the Warden of the West. It's my place to be at his side now. Tygett will accompany me. Jaime, you're in charge here at Casterly Rock. Listen to your uncle -" he nodded to Kevan "- but the decisions will be yours."

"I could ride with you and inspect the defenses along the way."

Tywin shook his head. "No, your place is here defending our land. Once the Iron Fleet is defeated, once Leyla gives birth, then you can join me with the army. Not before."

Tygett looked as if he was about to speak up but Tywin silenced him with a stare. "We'll need a thousand men from the forces here as an escort," he continued. "We're due to send taxes to King's Landing but the king's directed that we should send the money directly to him to supplement the coin he has on hand with the army."

"That's a large sum of coin to transport. If the Ironborn learn of this they'll want to catch you on the road."

"Indeed. However, the River Road is well away from the sea and we can follow it all the way to Riverrun." Tywin considered. "Have Lord Clegane's younger son as part of the force. His brother was useful, perhaps Sandor will be as well. It'll also keep him away from the Dornish levies."

* * *

  
**Olenna IV**

"This book is abomination!" the High Septon called out in an annoyingly high-pitched voice. "Every copy should be burned! I call on the Hand of the King to enforce decency upon the realm!"

"Why now after two hundred years of degeneracy," Olenna grumbled from her chair to one side of the hall.

The Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand wasn't large enough for her words to go unnoticed and there was a titter of laughter from some of the spectators.

Jon Arryn sighed with what sounded like exagerated patience, or possibly the beginnings of a nasty chest cold. "Your excellency, not all of Westeros take vows of celibacy. I am assured by those who have read the book that it places a very high value on chastity with strong admonitions against adultery to give an example."

"My lord, I am appalled that the most honourable house of Arryn would extend your protection to this matter. With but a word to Lord Bolton, I am sure that the printers responsible could be brought to heel and the souls of the impressionable youth brought safe from harm."

Roose Bolton, seated next to Olenna, gave the Septon a bland look. "I would advise against such an order," he said in his usual low, emotionless voice. "But would carry it out if given."

"You advocate the practises in this book?" The High Septon shook his head sadly. "But I forget, you are from the benighted North. I shall pray for your soul, Lord Bolton, for this is degeneracy that even a Dornishman would blush at."

"You haven't met very many Dornishmen, have you?" asked Olenna drily. "You're very loud in your outrage, High Septon, for a man who would supposedly have no knowledge of the practises described. Given that one of the Seven is the Mother, I suspect that the Seven-Who-Are-One would be far less offended."

The man went red.

"Besides, I've read the thing and there's a lot of good sense in it. I could wish Luthor had read it and I've already sent a copy to my gooddaughter, told her to make sure my son reads it."

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "Lady Tyrell, you are perhaps in a unique position on the Small Council to advise on that matter. You consider the book to have... virtue...?"

"Even at my age, there was a thing or two to learn." She gave him a dry look. "Unless Lysa's conceived and somehow hidden it from me, perhaps you should read it. You're not getting any younger and an heir for the Vale would calm a lot of eastern nerves down."

"This foul text," declared the High Septon in ringing tones, "Will do no such thing! Your grace, Prince Arryn, I appeal to you! There is, I am told, entire chapters are devoted to the prevention of conception."

"Those would be the sections marked out for those not within the bounds of matrimony. And if men followed those rules then there would be fewer bastards running around - meaning no disrespect to the King's elder daughters, but I imagine that Queen Alysanne wouldn't be distraught the King had read those parts when he was younger."

"I rather gather, my lady, that this is perhaps the sort of book that Robert might well have read closely in his younger days." Jon shook his head. "Well, I shall obtain a copy and examine it before making judgement, High Septon. The King, as a general practise, is not inclined to ban books and I wouldn't wish to set a precedent he might later overturn."

The High Septon opened his mouth but Jon raised his hand. "On to the next matter," he said firmly.

Lord Celtigar stepped forwards, displacing the High Septon's blustering with his own. Not that Olenna thought it would get him much further. "Prince Arryn, I seek justice from you. My cousin Ser Maelon was most brutally slain by the Hardys."

"A serious claim!" Jon sat up. "With the realm at war, we hardly need our noble houses slaying each other. Does House Hardy have a representative here?"

"Aye, your grace." An older man in the colours of the Crackclaw Point house stepped forwards. "Greygor Hardy, at your service."

"Do you deny this claim?"

"The Celtigar accusation omits certain key facts." The man sneered at Lord Celtigar. "Maelon Celtigar was indeed put to death by my House, for his fraudulent claims to be the King's tax collector."

"In point of fact," Olenna said sharply, "Maelon Celtigar is a tax collector for the crown." She tapped her cane when mutters went up. "However, his commission extends only to Massey's Hook and other lordships east of the Wendwater and north of the King's Road."

"I see you're familiar with the situation, Lady Olenna?"

"Indeed, my lord Hand." She placed one hand on top of the other, resting both on top of her cane. "I wonder, Lord Celtigar, that your House keep sending their kin and servants to try to claim taxes are due you from Crackclaw Point."

"We have an ancient and lawful claim, Lady Tyrell, which I would not expect you to be aware of."

"I'm most certainly aware that King Robert hasn't struck down Targaryen legislation on a general basis," Jon observed. "Nor has he specifically struck down that which asserts that the Houses of Crackclaw Point owe allegiance directly to the crown."

"Ah, but in fact that document cites House Targaryen and the Iron Throne," said the Celtigar smugly. "House Targaryen most clearly no longer rules over the Point and, quite famously, the Iron Throne is no more!"

Jon paused. "That's an interesting point, Lord Celtigar. And if you brought that matter before me, or before the King, it would be open to discussion. However, if Lord Maelon was falsely identifying himself as a crown tax collector for the Crackclaw Point then it would still be a matter of fraud on his part."

"My cousin's presence was to collect taxes on my behalf, so I could render them rightfully to King's Landing. I chose him for that role on the basis of his experience collecting taxes on the behalf of King Robert. There was no claim that he was acting for the King directly."

"That's not the tale he told us!" snapped Greygor Hardy.

"I'd hardly expect your tale to be a confession of your murdering ways."

"Why you..."

The Hand raised his hand and four King's Men moved in, poleaxes in their hands, two of them blocking the Celtigar and the other Ser Hardy. "I will have order," he said firmly. "It seems to me that there is wrongdoing on both sides here."

"How can I have done wrong!" cried out Celtigar. "It was my cousin who is dead! His wife and children who are bereaved."

"House Hardy had due cause to doubt Ser Maelon's authority," Jon said firmly. "However, they did not have the right to slay him. For this reason I fine them a gold dragon each year, payable to Ser Maelon's widow for the rest of her life. In future, I trust they will remember that the King's justice requires the accused be judged by the King, not by themselves."

He turned to Lord Celtigar. "Lord Celtigar, for sending your cousin in to collect taxes that it isn't at all clear you are due, particularly after not less than thirteen cases I recall of your asserting these claims in the past and having your collectors treated no differently than this, I also fine you a gold dragon each year, payable to King Robert for the cost of fostering all of Ser Maelon's children, which the crown will undertake. These payments to be due until all of those children are of age."

"And where do we owe taxes in the future?" demanded Greygor, anger at the fine apparently abated by seeing the Celtigar similarly humbled.

"That shall be placed before the King on his return. Until then, taxes will continue to be paid directly to King's Landing. An accounting shall be available to you, Lord Celtigar, should the King then decide in your favour."

Fat chance of that, Olenna noted to herself. King Robert wasn't noticeably rapacious but he'd be a fool to offend every house on the Point just to please the Celtigars.


	12. Chapter 12

**Stannis IX**

They'd spent the long voyage drilling the fleet and when Casterly Rock touched the horizon (Lannisport, much lower lying would be invisible until later) Stannis had the signal sent for a battle formation. Bright flags were hoisted and the loose columns of ships began shaking themselves out into lines abreast.

The Redwyne fleet was reputedly formidable but they'd not had as long under Stannis' lead so the two forces remained distinct. As previously agreed, they formed up on the right as the inshore squadron with two lines of galleys ahead of...

Stannis shook his head. "They still don't seem to get the idea," he complained, looking east at the still disorderly gaggle of Redwyne cogs. In contrast, his own galleys formed a similarly orderly triple line in the centre of the formation with the sailing ships - needing more handling space - grouped into an outshore squadron of two lines.

"Well, at least they recognised the signal to assume battle formation," pointed out Davos. "And to be honest, I understand their reservations about putting all their cogs on the edge of their formation, particularly up against the shore. All it would take is the wind shifting and they could run their ships aground or right into the galleys. Keeping them further back is safer."

Gritting his teeth the younger man stared across the water and then exhaled. "And their rigging isn't as good as ours. Which would be more useful if we didn't have to hold back and let them keep up."

"That's the price of having the extra ships when it comes to fighting the Ironborn," the smuggler said philosopically.

They watched as the mountains of the Westerlands crept up and up, eventually revealing Lannisport.

Davos frowned and reached for a glass. Holding it to one eye he frowned. "There's a ship in the harbour entrance."

"A merchantman?" Stannis shook his head. "No, that wouldn't make sense. The Ironborn are reaving away any coastal trader they see, according to Lord Redwyne."

"It's a galley - a large one." The captain of the Fury squinted. "Red and gold banner... looks as if the Lannisters managed to recover at least one."

"Not that they'd accomplish anything with one ship if we were hostile." Stannis looked up at the fore mast and the Baratheon banner that served as the topsail. "Valiant, but stupid."

By the time they were in hailing distance of the lone galley, the sun was low in the sky and the shadows of the fleet were cast long across the water.

Davos looked again at the quarterdeck of Lannisport's one defending warship. "There's a child in charge."

Stannis extended his hand for the glass. He glanced through it once and then handed it back to Davos. "That's Tywin Lannister's younger son. He's a dwarf."

"Oh." The former smuggler eyed the ship. "Well, I've seen worse. By the look of the paint, half the ship was sunk not long ago. Must have been in shallow water."

"Hallo the Fury!" called the small figure through cupped hands. "Is this Prince Stannis' fleet?"

"If it was Balon's, what would you do about it?" shouted Stannis back.

"I'd scuttle my ship here in the channel," came the unhesitating reply. "Good luck getting a galley that size past a wreck in the channel. Besides, you've no longships."

Stannis gave a short bark of laughter. "I'm Stannis Baratheon!" he called back. "So you don't need to sink the ship a second time."

The dwarf bowed. "Your grace, welcome to Lannisport. Permit me to back my ship out of the channel and my brother will be glad to welcome you to Casterly Rock."

Davos nodded. "Looks like this lion has a working brain, however short his legs are."

"Aye." Stannis glanced at Davos. "Put on a better tunic. I want you with me at the Rock."

"I'd be more than glad to oversee the port."

"I'm sure you would, but I want at least one honest man with me."

* * *

  
**Tywin IX**

"Greetings, your grace." Tywin had spent the previous night with an encampment of Stormlanders south of Riverun. To his surprise, the King had elected to disperse the combined armies into several distinct camps, each of around ten thousand men. It made sense to a point - over forty thousand men gathered around Riverun would have overun the town near the keep - but it would make it harder to keep them under control.

The great hall of Riverun was full of men but it wasn't the greater lords. Instead, there was a bustle of officers coming and going. Stood at the door, Robert stepped forwards from beside Hoster Tully and when Tywin rose from his bow, the King took his hand. "It's good to see you again, Lord Tywin."

"Welcome to Riverun," Lord Hoster added. "I believe you've met my son, Edmure?"

"Indeed." Tywin returned the young knight's bow. "And my brother, Ser Tygett."

"My pleasure." Robert shook Tygett's hand. "Step inside out of the rain. We've had a raven from Lannisport," he added to Twyin. "You'll be glad to hear that the fleet has reached them. My brother and your sons seem to be on good terms which I'm glad to hear."

"Then Balon Greyjoy will soon face our wrath."

Robert nodded. "I've considered offering him terms of surrender but I doubt there's any point. He won't accept anything I demand and I could hardly ask for less than the surrender of his fleet to you and similar concessions to Lord Tully, so I'd just be wasting time."

"I'm inclined to agree. Greyjoy may not see reason once we have an army on Pyke but he certainly won't before." Inside the great hall of Riverrun, the tables were covered with several dozen harnesses. Tywin glanced questioningly at Hoster Tully, who nodded towards the king.

"Oh, these?" Robert lifted one and inspected it. "I wanted to keep the men from getting too bored so I offered a reward of 100 dragons to the best horse collar. It occurred to me that if we put a heavier collar together that followed the collarbone of the horse, it might let horses pull heavier loads."

"And have they?"

"Some of these are good but I think there's some room for improvement still. I might wind up paying out to more than one of them." Robert shrugged. "In the long run, better horse collars will save me far more than a few hundred gold dragons. For that matter, keeping the men from being bored might save me that much."

Tywin nodded. Bored soldiers could be a problem. "There's always training."

"I know. But route marches, digging trenches and hitting each other with training weapons can only go so far."

"I wouldn't have thought you needed many trenches."

"Latrines," the king pointed out. "Also we have them working on the roads where we can. If one of the roads washes out we could waste days later on. Better to deal with it now when we can."

"I see." Tywin accepted bread and salt from Hoster and servants brought forth several mugs of ale which the new arrivals accepted gratefully. "I understand that you didn't want to discuss strategy by raven..."

Robert looked at Lord Hoster. "If we could use your solar?"

"Of course," the Riverlander Lord Paramount agreed and led the way.

Inside the more private chamber, Robert took out a map. "I've been organising the army into divisions of around ten thousand men." He made a face. "Each has some cavalry, some archers, and good number of infantry. I think we can reasonably hope that that's six or seven thousand that'll actually fight if it comes to that."

"Don't count on more than five," Tygett muttered.

Tywin glanced at his brother and then shook his head.

"You may be right," conceded the king. "In principle though it gives us some flexibility. Four of them will be placed under your command in the northern Westerlands while Prince Eddard will take charge of the other four and march them onto the Cape of Eagles. Once my brother has sufficiently weakened the Iron Fleet, we'll invade Harlaw and Pyke first, then push on to take the other islands in turn."

"And if Prince Stannis suffers reverses?"

Robert smiled slightly. "That will depend how bad they are. However, more ships are being prepared and there are other fleets - the Dornish, the remaining Arryn and Manderly ships - that can be called on. What Stannis has with him is a fleet that's supportable out of the western ports. If we take losses we can replace them. Every ship Greyjoy loses is lost forever, because the Iron Islands don't have the timber to build more."

Tywin considered and then nodded. One defeat could probably be coped with. On the other hand, he thought drily, two and the Dornish might very well decline to further support King Robert. Better to do everything he could to bolster the royal efforts now... "You should consider hiring sellsails from Essos. Some of them are creditable fleets and if they're fighting for us they aren't turning pirate on the eastern trade routes."

* * *

  
**Ned IX**

Ten thousand northern swords were encamped on the east bank of the Green Fork and nearly double that number - men of the Riverlands and what were now called the Easterlands (at least officially) - were on the west bank. Between these two forces lay the Twins.

"It's the Frey's worst nightmare," Howland Reed noted. The lord of Greywater brought no forces to join the Northern host - his people had commited their strength to keeping watch upon the Fever River and also on the southern end of the Neck. Any Ironborn raiders would find themselves most unfortunate if they ever came in view of the marshlanders and chances were that they'd never even see the men harrying them to their deaths. "Armies stationed on both sides of their stronghold."

"We aren't here to do anything to the Freys," Ned pointed out.

"Not this time." Howland shook his head. "I suspect this is a subtle message from the King to Walder Frey. This time it's just a muster against the Ironborn but if he ever wanted to remove the Freys, he could."

Ned smiled. "Robert isn't known for being subtle."

"He wasn't," said the one woman in the tent. Cersei Lannister still wore the mail and did so with more ease now. She wasn't armed right now - unless you counted her belt knife - but on the road she'd taken to carrying a crossbow. "But now he's spent several years in King's landing. He might have grown up."

However much Benjen dreaded his wife's presence in the army, the men liked it. If the Mormonts were there rather than guarding Bear Island, they might even have taken her to their hearts. The golden-haired woman in the red and grey cloak was even cheered as they reached Moat Cailin and joined the White Harbor levies that had been busily restoring some of the defenses. She'd ridden the length of the North by now.

"I suppose we'll see," Ned conceded. "You're probably right about how Lord Frey is taking it. He's certainly not extending hospitality if he can avoid it."

Benjen shrugged. "Well the entire army is going to pass through his castle when the time comes. Can't be helped."

"Two knights riding north from the Twins," came a call.

They rose and went to the entrance of the tent. "A trout and a lion," the sentry announced before Ned had exited.

"Might it be my brother?" asked Cersei.

The knights rode up the slope to the tents and banners that marked them as the place of the army's commanders. The Lannister knight wasn't the laughing young man Ned remembered from the throneroom in King's Landing, it was an older man.

"Uncle Tygett!" Cersei greeted him.

"Niece," the man greeted her with a surprised look at the mail shirt.

Ned offered his hand to the knight in Tully colours, who had removed his helmet to reveal familiar auburn hair and a face much younger than his companion's. "Edmure. It's good to see you."

"Ned." The young man gripped his hand firmly. "Has my sister forgiven you yet for bringing babies back with you from Dorne?"

"I hope so or where did my daughter come from?"

Edmure threw back his head and laughed. "Family is important to we Tullys. And speaking of which, you must be Benjen!"

"Yes. It's good to meet you at last," the younger Stark agreed. "You'll have met my wife, of course."

"Naturally." He bowed gallantly to Cersei. "Is this a new fashion from the North? Please tell me my sister has adopted the same style."

"Alas, no, but my goodsister seems interested," Cersei replied with a curtsey.

"I'm sure Genna and Darlessa will be fascinated to hear about it when we reach Casterly Rock." Tygett shook Benjen's hand, the two men gripping each other's hands fiercely. "Will you ride with us there, Lord Benjen? If Prince Stannis defeats the Ironborn we can send you north on a fast ship to rejoin your brother and if he doesn't then there's plenty of time to ride back."

Benjen frowned and looked over at Ned, who nodded. "I'll be glad to," he said.

"You can meet Jaime," Cersei said brightly. "And Tyrion, I suppose."

"Tyrion's with the fleet."

"Really, I never would have taken him for a sailor."

"A lot of things have changed since you left Casterly Rock," Tygett said grimly. "There was... a bad business with a smallfolk girl. Your father didn't handle it well."

Ned grimaced. Southerners. If he heard about one of his lord's sons treating the smallfolk badly... hells, if Robb grew up like that who knew how he'd handle it? It's easy to blame Tywin for not raising his son right but who knows if I'll be a better father.

Edmure sensed the mood and changed the subject. "You probably haven't heard, by the way, but Lord Bolton has a new son."

"He has?"

"Aye. Barton Bolton, a good healthy lad by the letter he sent to King Robert. I don't recall if his elder boy is with your army?"

"No, young Domeric's still just a boy. He's been staying with his aunt in Barrowton," Ned remembered.

* * *

  
**Viserys III**

Oberyn Martell cut a dashing figure at the head of the Dornish lords joining the army at Riverrun. Even the Reach heir, Ser Willas, seemed to have fallen under his spell and looked somewhat let down when Robert advised him that the bulk of the Reach's levies would be placed with Tywin's army while the Dornish would march further north to join Ned Stark's army.

"Your pardon, Prince Oberyn," Robert said drily, "But since it was Westerland knights who slew your sister and her children, there seems to me every chance for hotblooded men of the two kingdoms to quarrel even after the men responsible were punished."

"There are hotblooded men in the Westerlands? You surprise me, I had always considered them as coldblooded as their lord."

"Thank you for making my point for me."

"Well, since we can't march on up to Seagard directly, perhaps I could have a private conversation with my kinsman here."

Viserys saw the Usurper's brow crinkle. "Kinsman?"

"Well, by marriage." Oberyn nodded towards Viserys, who straightened sharply. The Martells had supported Rhaegar, who'd been married to Oberyn's sister. Did that mean...? Was this...?

"Well, as his guardian, I don't see a problem. I think he might be a bit young for your tastes though."

What did that mean?

"Off you go, Viserys." Robert patted him on the shoulder. "I won't need your services until dinner so you can do what you want until then." He reached into his purse and pulled out a few silver coins. "Here, if you want something from the sutlers, go ahead and treat yourself."

Oberyn - the Red Viper, Viserys remembered was his nickname - didn't say anything until they were clear of the Baratheon tents. "Does he treat you like that often?"

"Like what?"

"Hah." The man shook his head. "Is he a clever man pretending or is he just what appears to be, I wonder."

"Uh, why did you want to see me?"

Oberyn smiled thinly. "I wanted to see if the dragon had truly been tamed by the stag."

"Tamed!" Viserys slapped his hands together. "Is that what they think of me in Dorne?"

"We think little of your father in Dorne. My sister and her children could have come to us for shelter, or been sent with you to Dragonstone. Did you ever wonder why your King Aerys didn't arrange that?"

"I... no, I didn't think of that."

"Well you were just a child. But now you're growing into a man, what do you think?"

Viserys thought about his father and, reluctantly, about Robert Baratheon - the king whose actions he'd seen for the last few years. The King who was keeping his sister in King's Landing and seducing her into loyalty towards his family. "I think... I think your sister was a hostage against my brother."

"Oh? Well that's not precisely it. It was more that she was hostage against us. I doubt Rhaegar cared for my sister, with the Stark girl to distract him." There was something cold about Oberyn's tone, much unlike the heat Viserys felt about Daenerys' circumstances. "Ten thousand Dornish pikes fought for Rhaegar at the Trident, despite his crimes against us. Now about as many of our young men are here and fighting for the Baratheon."

"He's an usurper. After Aegon's death I became the heir and when father was killed I should have become king."

"There's an old Dornish saying," the older man advised him. "It dates back to before my family united the land under our rule: 'Why does treason never prosper'?"

"Treason does prosper, else how does he claim to be King of the Seven Kingdoms?"

Oberyn lowered his voice. "Treason does not prosper, my young friend, because when it does, no one dares name it as such."

Viserys laughed bitterly. "And there you have my life, friend - if friend you are."

"Oh, you do not want me to be your enemy, Viserys." Oberyn gestured to where the Dornish knights and their entourages were making camp. "You want the House of Nymeros Martell to be your friends because you want our soldiers for your cause."

"It would be a start."

"My brother and I recognise that after our mutual nephew, your claim was best to the Iron Throne. But the Iron Throne is gone and we won't shed Dornish blood to re-establish it unless three conditions are met."

Viserys looked at the knights and men-at-arms. He'd begun to get some appreciation for the quality of soldiers over the last few months and these were as good or better than most of those gathering into the Riverlands at the call of the Stag. "You have my attention."

"Firstly, we'd need some confidence that you can succeed. Dorne has stood alone against the rest of Westeros before and while we've triumphed, the price is not one my brother will pay. We'd see your strength and the depth of your support in the other Kingdoms."

Which was hardly the case, Viserys thought bitterly. At best he might hope for some support out of the Reach right now... although if a winter was coming on then the southern kingdoms would be at an advantage. "I understand."

"Secondly, we would know what sort of King we're making. Your father was a weak king, dependent upon Tywin Lannister. When that alliance broke down, within three years Aerys was dead. There's no use fighting for a king like that."

Viserys grimaced but said nothing. Disagreeing with Oberyn wouldn't accomplish anything but he could hardly agree. A king who everyone betrayed was always in grave danger.

Oberyn gave him an amused look. "Well, it's too early to say on those."

"And the third condition?"

The younger prince of Dorne parted his lips in a fierce snarl. "There was no accident in my sister's death. Stark, Arryn and Baratheon prospered by it, but it was Lannister who had my sister murdered. We'll help you with Robert Baratheon, but you must pledge to revenge against Tywin Lannister."

Viserys smirked. "I'd have insisted even if you didn't."

There was a clatter of hooves and a rider wearing a trout tabard reined in his horse near the two of them. Viserys recognised the rider as one of Hoster Tully's squires. "Lord Viserys, where can I find the king!?"

"He was in his tent when I last saw him. Is something wrong?"

The boy turned his horse's head. "A raven arrived from Banefort. There's been a battle off the coast and Prince Stannis's fleet is retreating to Fair Isle with many ships lost."


	13. Chapter 13

**Jon IX**

Rhaenys' Hill wasn't as high as Aegon's and it stood further from the sea. The building that topped it was no smaller than the Red Keep - indeed it seemed to be even larger, for it hadn't been built to house mere men.

That had changed now and after years of effort, Jon could see that the once blackened and ruined walls were now cleaned and whole. The great dome had been restored in terms of stonework and the craftsmen were now lifting panes of glass carefully up the massive scaffolding that had been used to restore the stones.

It was an incredible space. Thirty knights could have ridden abreast through the great doors, which gave some idea of the scale, but according to the histories, one of the dragons had even flown within and was responsible for the damage to the dome - having crashed against it. The beast could not have been as vast as the enormous Black Dread that Aegon the Conqueror had ridden, but even so...

Jon shook his head away from the reverie. While restoring the dome would make the building weatherproof, it wouldn't make it habitable. Ringing the central space were the dragon stalls and each of these was being filled by new chambers and halls. Lightwells and windows had to be cut through the stone - workers had laboured upon the great tourney ground at the bottom of the hill as well and even that immense work had taken less effort.

"The towers are almost complete, my lord," reported the master mason. "Would you like to inspect them?"

"More stairs?" sighed Jon. "Aye, it should give a vantage point for the rest of the work."

This was no longer a dragon pit, Robert had declared. It would be the new home of the Baratheon monarchy and in tribute to this had commissioned the addition of seven towers. "This will be the Crown of Westeros," he had said when Queen Alysanne likened the design (seven towers rising from a band around a dome) to his crown.

The name probably won't catch on, Jon thought. It's been the Dragonpit for centuries.

Not aware of these thoughts, the mason gestured to the east. "The Falcon Tower stands ready, my lord."

Jon smiled mirthlessly. The rebellion of the Greyjoys had at least settled any questions of how to name the towers. Wolf, Falcon, Stag, Sun, Rose, Lion and Trout were the names and the Kraken could go begging, Robert had said sharply. Or if they prefered, there were cellars that would do as dungeons...

The Prince of the Vale, the Lord of the Eyrie, probably shouldn't huff and puff so much on the stairs he thought. Then again, it's been too long since I was there. Last time I visited the Vale was... just as winter was ending. The Eyrie was still closed up and I only went as far as the Gates of the Moon.

When this war ends, he swore to himself, I'll go back there. Take Lysa, she's barely had any time there at all. She seems to like some of the ideas in that book Olenna lent me and if they result in an heir then I'll praise it to the stars, Sept be damned. I want our children born and raised in the Eyrie like true heirs to the Vale.

The tower was one of the two on the eastern side of the Drag- the Crown of Westeros with a long view out over Blackwater Bay. From here he could even see down into the arena where Fleabottom had once rotted. There were people rushing back and forth inside it. Squinting a little, Jon saw that they were playing football. It was the most popular use of the place - tourneys happened once or twice a year at most, the horse races took place regularly once a week (along with the ridiculous chariot races that the smallfolk seemed to adore) but on any other given day with decent weather, a few score apprentices and other layabouts would be found kicking and punching each other with a theoretical goal of moving the pig's bladder ball from one end of the arena to the other.

"It gets them off the streets," Jon mused out loud. And if the current Master of Coins could be believed, the rents from the small booths built into the outer edge of the arena were slowly beginning to pay for the expenses of building the place.

Turning aside from the window, Jon inspected the rooms of the tower. Sufficient for a lord (or a prince) with their family, a suitable retinue of servants and some guards. While they weren't officially reserved for him, the intent was obvious and the same would be true of the other towers: homes for the lords of the Seven Kingdoms or their senior bannermen when they visited.

John knew that the Stag tower was no larger, although unlike the other six towers it connected directly to further chambers beneath and in practise those gave greater space and security for the royal household. Below him, for example, were several long chambers - not wide enough to be counted as halls - with windows looking out to sea. Eventually they'd be filled with writing desks and storage cabinets, housing the growing number of clerks who were needed to manage the kingdom.

On the west side of the tower was a door leading out onto the dome itself. Looking out of it, Jon tried to imagine the space below, the throne on a comparatively tiny dais. What sort of crowd could fill it...

Maybe it's Robert who deserves to be called the mad king, he thought. (It wasn't the sort of thing he'd dare being overheard saying). No, what's the word Daenerys used... eccentric!

* * *

  
**Stannis X**

White sails on a grey sky, but one sail was black and the hull beneath it was crimson as red blood sinking into a blue-green sea.

A ship with flames rising up the rigging until it was almost a single flame.

Black hair, one black eye and one blue and glittering as an axe flashed. Behind it a rush of howling faces, more animals than men save that they wielded steel.

Boys screaming in agony amid blasted and broken planking.

The crash of wood on wood and a small form flinging itself over the bulwarks and into the boarding net as King’s Men hurled their clay and obsidian dragon-pots past it...

Stannis Baratheon gasped and stared at the wooden beams over his head. It took him a long moment to realise that he was awake. He tried to snare his dreams, put the images into context but they slipped away...

“I was in battle,” he concluded.

“Aye.” An ugly face below a mop of golden hair appeared at the side of his bed. “And you’re awake, which is an improvement.”

“Tyrion Lannister...” Stannis slumped back, his head sinking back into the thin pillow. This was his bunk in great cabin of the Fury. “Your ship...”

“Burned merrily,” the Lannister said cheerfully. “Hardly fair after all the effort I made to raise it last time. Still, my lord father would be furious if the Greyjoys had it as a trophy.”

“Do you always chatter this much?”

“Largely.” The boy – no, he’d fought a battle and if there was anything more prone to divide men from boys it was that – the man pulled himself further up and started to wrestle boots onto his feet. “I’ll tell Ser Davos you’re back with us.”

“Wait. The battle... who won?”

Tyrion made a face. “I’m damned if I know. Paxter Redwyne’s taking the fleet back to Fair Isle to make repairs.”

“Retreating.” He’d have spat if his throat wasn’t so dry.

“It’s the nearest harbour. And the ships need it.”

Stannis made a sharp gesture with his hand. “We didn’t come here to run away. Fetch Davos.”

The little man bowed with sardonic aplomb, stamped his feet once more in the boots and opened the latch of the door. He paused in the doorway. “If you hadn’t brought the Fury alongside I’d be dead or drowned,” he said quietly. “My thanks for that, Prince Stannis.”

Did I do that? While Stannis pondered that, the door closed behind the Lannister.

Stannis could feel the Fury swaying slightly. There was no creaking of the oars so they must be under sail, but it was quieter than it should be. The Fury had a crew sufficient for her oars, not like the cogs and carracks of the sailing vessels in the fleet which could operate with a few dozen – although they had double or more that in soldiers aboard them of course.

He heard heavier boots and the door opened. Davos Seaworth looked tired but satisfied. “Prince Stannis, it’s good to see you’re awake.”

“I’ll take your word for it. There was a battle, I remember that much. What happened.”

“You took an axe to your head. Without your helmet, the Crow would have killed you.”

“The Crow... Euron Greyjoy.”

Davos nodded in confirmation. “His galley and four longships were boarding the Lion of Lannister. We rammed alongside and took the remaining Lannister men aboard, then burned her.” He sighed. “It’s hard to burn a ship.”

“They’re nothing but wood and tar. You know how easily they burn.”

“Not quite what I meant, my lord.” Davos moved further into the cabin. “The Crow followed up onto the Fury and it was close for a while.”

“Did he escape?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The former smuggler smiled. “The little lion tied a grapple to the anchor-chain and set it loose. Then he stabbed the Crow with the grapple.”

Stannis stared. “What?”

“More than a ton of anchor and chain – the Crow went into the water like gold out of a sailor’s hands. I’m sure he and his Drowned God must be having quite the conversation now.”

“Good enough. Redwyne’s in charge?”

“Aye, dusk was drawing so he signalled for all ships to gather on his flagship. Didn’t want us scattering in the night and getting picked off one at a time. Then he turned south... what could we do but follow?”

Stannis took a deep breath. It wasn’t what he’d have done... but if he was unable to take command... "There is something to that. How long have I been... asleep?"

"Two days." Davos moved closer.

Long enough that they must almost be at Fair Isle. "Why is the ship so quiet?"

Davos held up one finger. "We lost a good many men." Another finger. "I formed a prize crew for one of the Ironborn galleys we captured." And a third finger. "And it's the middle of the night."

"Ah." He shook his head. "Well, how many ships did we lose?"

"Out of the whole fleet? Almost three score."

Stannis gripped the sheets. "Captured?"

"A few, but your orders were mostly carried out. Crews burned their ships rather than see them taken. A fair number managed to escape by counter-boarding or - as with us and the Lion of Lannister - being rescued."

"How do you reckon their losses?"

"More than half, maybe as many as two score. We captured four galleys and seven longships. Others burned... It's hard to be sure."

"Aye." Stannis started levering himself upright. "I need to speak to Redwyne as soon as it's light."

Davos firmly put his hands on Stannis' shoulders. "Save your strength, I'll signal him to come aboard once it's light."

"I'll meet him on my feet."

The Onion Knight grimaced. "Your foot, sir."

"Yes?"

Seeing only an unhelpful gesture, Stannish grabbed the blanket again and yanked it away. What he saw made no sense to him. One of his legs ended just below the knee.

There was a rushing noise in his ears that drowned out Davos' words.

* * *

  
**Viserys IV**

"Don't call my name in battle, 'tis not wise,  
"Do not distract me when you see a new soul in these eyes.  
For when the Warrior dons this flesh I wear,  
I am no more your friend, I am the spirit of the storm."

Viserys tried to ignore the song that Robert was singing to himself as he lay on his bed. The usurper's voice was low and somehow sad. The bed - little more than a cot - was at the back of the royal tent. Viserys had a similar one near the entrance - indicative that as a squire he was supposed to defend the man.

"Is that you, Viserys?"

With a sigh, the boy stepped forwards. "Yes sir."

Robert levered himself upright. "I've been waiting for you."

"You said I had until dinner."

"Yes." The man rubbed his face. "You're not late. It's more... hmm. Surprisingly hard to say this. I owe you an apology, Viserys."

What!? Viserys put one hand on the tent pole. "Is... that so?"

"Aye." Rising fully his feet, Robert studied his face. "You heard what I told Oberyn, that you were 'younger than I thought his tastes ran'? That was ill said."

"I... did not understand that remark, sir."

The usurper exhaled uncomfortably. "If you haven't started yourself, I'm sure you've seen some of the older boys around the keep bothering the maids."

The boy felt his cheeks heat. "I understand."

"Some men find women less interesting than other men. Others don't seem to have much preference."

What. What? What!? "WHAT?"

Robert put one hand on his shoulder. "Calm down. For the record, I'm entirely in favour of women in that regard. But Prince Oberyn draws no distinction." He made a face. "I'm not sure he draws a line at goats, come to that. But in hindsight, I think you can see how my words earlier could be taken to imply I was granting him license... to... well, I think you get the idea."

"I... Why did you say that then!?"

"It was intended as little more than an off-colour joke. In general I don't care who or what he beds. I didn't consider what was implied more seriously and for that I owe you my apologies. I'm sorry I said it. Men take the words of a king more seriously and I forgot that." He put his other hand on Viserys' other shoulder, looking him in the eye. "You're under my protection and at least until you're older that includes protecting you from that sort of thing."

Viserys smacked his hand aside. "I don't want your protection."

Robert released him. "I never said you wanted it, but right now you need it. As much from my supporters as anyone else."

"I could -" Viserys bit it off. No, you fool, he thought. Don't tell him your intentions.

There was a knowing look in the man's eyes. Then again, how hard would it be to guess at why Oberyn wanted to talk to him.

Robert nodded but said nothing directly. Instead he turned back to his travelling chest and pulled off his shirt. Then he looked back. "If you're thinking of stabbing me when my back's turned, you might want to think a few steps past it first. Even if you succeed, what then? There's no crown for you if you do that."

Shocked, Viserys looked down and saw that his hand was curled around the sheath of his dagger.

"Get me a clean tunic," Robert ordered. "And then clean yourself up. We need to put on a good show at dinner - it wouldn't do for the king to look worried about his brother's fate," he added in a disgusted voice.

* * *

  
**Olenna V**

For secure correspondence, Olenna Tyrell found she had to do much of her work in the guarded chambers of the Master of Whispers. She much preferred to get out of those chambers so she could keep her finger on the pulse of gossip around the Red Keep.

Fortunately, now that it was summer there were more days when she could have less sensitive papers brought to her in one of the arbors of the Red Keep's gardens and combine both practises while also enjoying the warmth of the sun.

"Prince Jon sent this for you, Lady Olenna," Renly Baratheon advised, sweeping a bow to her as he entered the arbor.

"Do straighten up, you look like you'll fall over."

Bella Rivers giggled at her uncle. The girl was a delight to keep around - she could be bribed with sweetmeats to carry out little chores or to spy on her foster-mother. Although she suspected Alysanne bribed her the same way to spy on Olenna - she was putting on a little weight.

With a sigh, Renly delivered the slim parcel to the table by Olenna.

"Do open it, young man. Do I seem to have a knife sufficent to the wrapping of the thing? Arryn trusts you with sharp objects, I hope?"

The young prince gave her a mild look. "Well I am awfully clumsy, Lady Tyrell." He drew his beltknife and rolled it between his fingers - a trick he took great pride in, from what Bella had told her - before cutting open one end of the packaging.

"You're a boy, we're used to that." Olenna peeled back the edge and found the wrapping was around paper: a heavy wad of the very cheap paper used by the Pentos Broadsheet and a smaller number of documents in the hand of certain correspondents in the same city. They didn't consider themselves spies so she didn't use the term.

"Hmm. So that's where Ser Arthur went," she mused. "A very handsome young man but perhaps not too bright when it comes to subterfuge."

"Ser Arthur Dayne?" asked Bella.

"Oh yes. It seems he visited his old and dear friend, Varys in Pentos."

"Ser Arthur and Master Varys were friends?"

"No, boy, they weren't. They knew each other though. Hmm. And an unnamed sellsword, possibly associated with the Golden Company. Here, my eyes aren't what they used to be, what do you make of this sketch?"

The two children examined it. "It's Lord Connington," Renly said in surprise. "I saw him at Storm's End once before the war."

"Oh dear me." She smiled thinly. "A spymaster sent into exile (although back to his homeland so that's not very harsh), an enemy of the crown and a knight who was pardoned for his support of the Targaryens. I wonder what they might have been talking about?"

"It's a con-spira-sorry," Bella said solemnly.

"Conspiracy," Renly corrected automatically. "Do you think that's true, Lady Tyrell? The Golden Company fought for the Blackfyres, and except for Viserys and Daenerys, they'd be as close to the succession as anyone."

"There hasn't been a Blackfyre heir since the War of the Ninepenny Kings," Olenna told him. "Although I suppose that just means there's been time for one to grow up. You might have a point though." She set the letter down. "Make yourself useful, girl, and put a paperweight on that."

While Bella moved a polished pebble to keep the letter from flying away in the wind, Olenna opened up the first broadsheet. "Let's see what Varys has to say for himself... Ah, here we go... An Analysis of the Impact of the Greyjoy Rebellion."

"What does he say?"

"He seems to think it'll impact on the trade in the north-west and increase the asking price for ship stores, timbers and hemp for ropes. A short term inconvenience and nothing to worry about except for the possibility of a slight rise in pirate risks over the rest of the year. Well, he always was a clever man."

Renly pulled a face. "Stannis is going to have all the fun."

"I wasn't aware that your brother knew the meaning of the word." She turned the broadsheet over. "Oh, how remarkable. It seems the paymaster of the Golden Company, one Jon Connington, is reported missing with some substantial portion of their warchest. That's the news from Lys, it seems. Oh, and Salladhor Saan is fitting out his ships for a new venture. Tsk. No prizes for guessing why Varys thinks piracy will be on the up turn."

She made a note of that to mention to Jon Arryn at the next Small Council meeting. With so much of the royal navy in the west, the eastern shore might easily be considered vulnerable to the Lysene pirate...


	14. Chapter 14

**Tywin X**

Tygett slung his cloak over a chair before greeting Tywin. "The weather's terrible," he observed.

Tywin glanced up at him. "Yes," he said shortly and then looked back at the despatches.

"Jaime wanted to join the army. I told him your instructions hadn't changed."

"Good."

"Leyla will probably give birth soon," Tygett added. "I imagine he'll send another request at that time."

"I'll refuse."

"Also King Robert turned into a dragon and flew back to King's Landing."

Tywin signed the letter in front of him and wiped the tip of his quill. "I very much doubt that."

"Just checking you were paying attention."

"You arrived from the south. Even if King Robert did something that unlikely, I'd have heard about it before you did." He capped the ink well. "Prince Stannis is sailing north to meet us here, embark the army and sail for Pyke."

"A decapitation attack?" his brother opened a flagon of wine and held up two goblets.

Tywin shook his head.

Putting down one goblet, Tygett filled the other form himself. "It's a solid plan but it counts on his being able to defeat the Ironborn and land the army. If the Iron Fleet catches the Royal Fleet while it's busy disembarking us... well, matters would get ugly."

It rests more on whether or not the Ironborn learn of the plan and launch a raid on us here at Banefort, Tywin observed. Catch Stannis here, destroy his fleet while we're loading the army and burn out the port... they'll want to repeat what they did at Lannisport. But if you don't see that there's no use telling you the real plan.

"Lord Tarly is in charge of the defenses," he said instead. "You're to take charge of getting our men ready to board the ships."

"Is Tyrion still with the fleet?"

"Despite managing to lose the Lion of Lannister, he appears to have made a positive impression with Prince Stannis." Tywin rose and went to the window of the room, looking out at the sea. The wind was kicking up fearsome waves. "Since the Baratheons have seen fit to award him a new galley, captured from the Ironborn, I see no reason he shouldn't continue to be of use there."

"And since we've discussed your sons now, Cersei is settling back in at Casterly Rock. Genna had her take off the armour almost immediately."

"The North appears to prize her. That bodes well for the alliance with the Starks."

"Are a few miles of half-frozen forest and some poor farms worth all of this?"

"The future of our family may rest on it," Tywin explained. Explaining this might have merit. Now Cersei had found her feet, the way could open for one of his brothers to go north. Gerion was in the King's favour and the Royal Guard were to be rewarded for their service. A landhold in the north wasn't impossible now that there were family ties and the right landholding...

Turning he opened one of his saddlebags and found the map he was looking for. "Tygett, how long has gold been mined in the Westerlands?"

"Thousands of years. I doubt anyone knows exactly."

"And in all that time, despite the occasional worry, we've never exhausted the gold beneath the mountains. Casterly Rock, Castamere, Golden Tooth... the Westerlands are riddled with mines. And sooner or later, all mines reach the end of what can be dug out of them."

"Are you suggesting...?"

"There is no way of knowing. And that gold - not to mention iron, copper and coal - are the foundations of our family's security." He spread the map out. "Now, look here. The highest mountains in the north are here, in the western section of Lord Benjen's holdings. And they stretch southwards from there perhaps two-thirds of the way to Winterfell, possibly the same range as those overlooking the Stony Shore."

"You think there could be similar mining prospects there?"

Tywin nodded sharply. "One of the settlers we sent north with Cersei returned on my orders, not out of fright at the cold of winter. He brought with him stones picked up from the mountains. Our miners have compared them with those taken from near Golden Tooth. As far as can be told, the types of stone are the same."

"So if the stones are the same then mining there could yield the same rewards." Tygett nodded. "So now that the Starks are accustomed to one Lion among the Wolves you want to send miners north to see what can be found in Cersei's lands."

"Something like that." Tygett had never thought on a large scale, much to Tywin's disappointment. And of course if Eddard Stark hadn't married someone as fecund as the Tully woman, Cersei's son would be a more than worthy heir. Still, there was time to see how that played out. A son and daughter, with one more on the way, was no certainty in dynastic terms. One didn't need to look further than his own children but...

Well. Eddard Stark was a more than able prince. The North was stable and for what might be the first time since the Andal Invasion it was forming solid ties to the rest of Westeros. Lord Selmy in the west, his daughter in the north and one of the eastern lords in King's Landing and apparently doing very well on the Small Council. None of this was to House Lannister's detriment, as long as they weren't shut out of this new power structure.

And if the next Prince of the North was less useful? Then his half-Lannister cousins would be in place and waiting.

* * *

  
**Stannis XI**

There was a crunch audible from the quarterdeck of the Fury as the Silence caught a larger galley on the flank. The oars of the small galley were already stroking the water to draw it back out of its prey before the sinking ship dragged its killer down, or before the Ironborn could board.

"The little man's getting the hang of this," Davos said. "But the Ironborn are moving again."

Stannis grunted and turned his spyglass away from the deck of the Silence, where the small form of Tyrion Lannister was issuing orders, to the wider fleet. "Have Paxter Redwyne move his squadron to intercept."

"He's requesting reinforcements from the reserves."

Stannis shook his head. "I want those crews rested."

With the Iron Fleet decoyed to Banefort, Stannis had brought his own ships in a long loop around the Iron Isles and then caught a west wind in to reach Seagard and the Northern Army. Unfortunately an Ironborn longship must have caught a glimpse of them or some other source had alerted the Greyjoys and the wind had shifted to the south, speeding their pursuit.

Half the transports were at piers, being loaded with the supplies, horses and men they'd need for the invasion. The other half, already loaded, were still trapped against the shore by the south wind, barely able to claw their way out from the port by desperate tacking back and forth. That left the battle to the galleys and to the Ironborn longships that were light enough to be rowed alongside them.

"That won't make him happy."

"I don't care." Stannis eyed the enemy again. They had more ships to bring to bear, but by forming a line across the bay, he'd forced them to fight on a narrower front than either fleet could have. Unlike the galleys he was holding back - almost a quarter of the fleet - the Ironborn were jostling for position and getting in each other's way as they pushed to participate in the fight. "Discipline is our advantage. Let those fools over there wear themselves down. When the time comes, we'll have fresh ships and crews ready to finish the battle."

Davos shrugged. "It's rough on the ships here in the forward line though."

"That's why I'm here." He gripped the rail and half-stepped, half-hopped along to look out over the other side of the Fury. He didn't know how long it would take to get used to having half a leg on that side. He was beginning to suspect he'd never be entirely adjusted to it.

There was a dull thump in the distance and smoke rose from the foredeck of an Ironborn galley. So did screams and when Stannis looked at the ship through his eye-glass he could see tendrils of blood trickling off the decking.

"Those dragon-pots the King's Men are using are murderous. Where did your brother get the idea?"

"I've never asked," Stannis replied, watching as sailors from the Easterland galley boarded the Ironborn vessel, easily cutting down the survivors on the forecastle. The midship was better protected, but that wasn't vital. Once the forecastle was secured there was enough room to lay fires. A moment to ensure they were spreading and the sailors retreated back to their own ship, pushing the Ironborn ship away as the rebels were forced to fight the fires and not the loyalists - and they were under archer fire.

"The wind's shifting," Davos warned after more than an hour of this. So far as Stannis could tell, losses were almost equal. Fury had only been boarded once and the longship responsible had been alone and desperate. The few of them to get aboard were crushed easily - a second royal galley rammed into the lightly hulled ship and ripped its flank open before more could scale the higher sides of Stannis' flagship.

He turned, trying to feel the wind on his cheeks. "But from where."

Davos licked one of the shortened fingers of his left hand and held it up. "From the east!"

Stannis grabbed the rail. "Then we have them! Signal the reserves to form on us! Everything else on the frontlines move to the sides. With wind behind us we won't need many oarmen." He looked port and starboard. "There's room, what with our losses."

Flags were hooked to a line and hoisted up the aft mast - the mizzen, Davos called it. Looking back towards the shore Stannis could see the transports - all of them packed with soldiers and more than able to defend themselves as long as they weren't rammed - unfurling their sails. The reserve of galleys were doing the same and forming into a wedge that was moving towards him.

The Ironborn must have seen them because some of them were trying to turn their ships and to raise their own sails. Not all of them seemed to have got the message though, and after the last few months, Stannis was willing to bet lives that those who had didn't have enough sails to outpace his fleet.

Then again, betting lives was his job as commander. He just hoped Robert didn't do something stupid - the last thing he needed was his brother falling in the sea and drowning.

* * *

  
**Ned X**

The last time Ned Stark had seen Dornish pikemen had been the Trident. Ten thousand men under Prince Lewyn Martell had fought for Rhaegar Targaryen and they had fought well. Had Rhaegar not fallen beneath Robert's warhammer, breaking the loyalist morale, many a northern home would have lost a son or brother that now live - in many cases to fight along side those same pikemen.

A landing was even more dangerous than embarking an army, with the prospect that they might be attacked from shore as well as sea. Robert had wanted to lead the landing himself and only been dissuaded when Ned reminded him that the Dornish, wearing only light armour, would be the first ashore. It might not be likely that any of them would do Robert injury but there was no point taking that chance.

Instead, Robert was busying himself overseeing the King's Men as they quickly hoisted rafts of barrels and timbers out over the sides of ships and began securing them together into a floating pier. With the Dornish men anchoring the structure at one end it would be faster to unload the rest of the army than the use of small boats that had been required in the early stages.

Robert rode on a carrack but Ned had been curious enough to accept the offer to travel on Silence. Now her captain crossed the deck, boots thumping the deck like a larger man.

"It's a clever idea," Tyrion Lannister said with an illustrative look at the pier. "I wouldn't want to try walking it myself even if I was sober, but it might get your men ashore in time."

"In time for what?"

"Signallers on the shore reported a party of horsemen riding for the Ten Towers. The Harlaws know we're here and Lord Rodrik Harlaw is not accounted a fool. His best chance of breaking us is here."

"We have forty thousand men, I doubt the Iron Isles have that many men armed in total."

Tyrion nodded sharply. "Oh indeed, but we have only a fifth of the men ashore even now and the Harlaws are a strong house I'm told."

"Strong enough." Ned glowered towards the shore. "Then we should disembark more quickly. Do you have any suggestions?"

Tyrion shook his head and pointed to a handful of captured longships that were sculling awkwardly towards the shore. "That was my own best thought and the King has put it into practise already."

There were Reach colours on the men pulling the oars, Ned realised. "Why aren't sailors rowing?"

"Every sailor rowing is one less man at arms ashore," Tyrion explained. "There won't be anyone left aboard the longships - or not enough to get them back offshore to us - but it's another thousand or so men on the beach instead of a third so many."

"I see. It'll slow down the unloading in the long run though, compared to having them go back and forth."

"What matters more, Prince Stark? Getting the whole army ashore or getting enough ashore to repel a counter-attack?"

"You have a point." Ned rubbed his beard. "You're not quite what I expected."

There was an edge to Tyrion's laugh. "Well, I'll keep surprising you."

"Concentrate on surprising the Greyjoys for now," Ned told him. "I'd better get ashore myself. If the Ironborn are going to try to push us back, my place is there."

The Lannister glanced over to the rafts being manhandled. "I'll have us rowed over to the pier. By the time we get there, you should be able to walk ashore without... well -" He saw one raft tip and two of the King's Men - fortunately not wearing their usual armour - were tipped into the water. "- almost without getting your feet wet."

The Silence didn't exactly live up to its name - the rowers kept rhythm with song that seemed to have an endless string of verses, each more obscene than the last. Their captain seemed quite enthusiastic about singing this with them. Despite this they didn't reach the pier before Robert did.

"I'll see you on the beach, Ned," the King called, balancing on the rocking boards.

"Shouldn't one of us stay with the ships?"

"You can if you want!" Robert waved for the handful of Royal Guard with him - and his squire - to follow him. "I'm getting on dry land no matter what!"

"I wouldn't want to be them if they fall off the pier," Tyrion noted as the Silence backed water for a moment and barely avoided grazing the flimsy rafts. "If there's enough water for the Silence to float then there's more than enough for them to drown."

Ned looked down at the pier and then at the ships closing in to disembark their own loads of soldiers. "Someone has to keep all this in order."

"Well you're the Prince of the North and Prince Stannis is the Master of Ships -" Tyrion broke off as Ned glared at him. The dwarf hammered his chest. "I'm a galley captain," he shouted.

"Stannis has to worry about Ironborn ships." Ned scrambled over the side of the Silence and dropped onto the pier next to Rodrik Cassell, who had gone ahead. "And I need to keep our king alive. I'm trusting you!"

"Oh." Tyrion heaved himself up to look down over the bulwark. "Well that makes everything alright, doesn't it."

Ned considered drawing Ice in salute to the little man, then realised that if he tripped he could send his family's ancestral sword to the bottom of the sea. Better wait until he was nearer the shore. "You're said to be clever. Prove it."

Then more soldiers started spilling onto the pier and Ned had to start moving along the rafts towards the shore.

* * *

  
**Viserys V**

Viserys was told later that the Ironborn had only numbered five thousand at most, more than half of them small-folk armed with whatever the Harlaws could find at the back of their armouries.

It hadn't felt like that. It hadn't felt like that at all.

Under his armour, he felt like one big bruise. And for all that he'd fallen well behind Robert Baratheon and the Royal Guards. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten focused on fighting one particular Ironborn with an axe and better armour than the rest. He'd beaten him in the end but when he looked around the usurper and his guards were out of view.

Rather than try to find them, Viserys had attached himself to the retinue of the Karstarks, fighting on the flank of the Dornish pike-line and seen out the battle with them.

His sword was red.

I'm a warrior now. I've killed men...

With a gasp, Viserys tore off his helm and threw up. He didn't care who saw him in that moment, only to let that acidic gorge explode out of him, along with sobs.

There had been a mix of fear and exultation before but now, afterwards, he could feel a growing emptiness. Any of these bodies could have been mine, he thought, looking at the dying and the gasping, crying wounded lying side by side. It wouldn't even have needed to be a plot to remove me, just sheer chance...

"There you are!"

Looking up he saw Robert Baratheon, golden surcoat stained in blood, great antler helm gripped in the same fist that supported the man's hammer. Eddard Stark stood with him, quietly wiping the blade of the Valyrian greatsword he bore.

Viserys tried to hide his state, wipe away his face but the usurper handed off both his burdens to Jorah Mormont and produced a rag from his belt to offer him. "The bards lie about this too," he said quietly. "There would be something wrong with you if you didn't feel like this on your first battlefield."

"You didn't," Eddard observed. He inspected his sword and then thrust it into the scabbard across his back.

Robert shook his head. "It hit me later. My blood was still up back then."

"You never told me." The northerner seemed startled. Almost disappointed.

"I was young and foolish. You were coping and I didn't want to be the one who wasn't. By the time I realised I was being an idiot, it had been long enough it hardly seemed to matter."

Jorah Mormont cleared his throat. "Your grace, you realise you bordered on going berserk out there?"

The look on Robert's face was chagrinned. "I thought I kept it under control."

"I'm from Bear Island. We know berserkers. If they can't hang onto themselves we send them north of the wall, lest they endanger everyone around them."

Viserys stepped away from Robert, which earned him a wry look from the man. "So am I that bad, Ser Jorah?"

"No, you're manageable. But we're going to have to rethink how we defend you on the battlefield." He looked at at Ser Gerion. "And we'll need more Royal Guards, I think."

"Perhaps, instead of a tournament, we could pick knights who've shown their worth in this war. If we can find seven suitable men..."

"You have my permission," Robert told them. "And you can draw on the Easterland levies to form another company of King's Men if you see fit. We've probably got some time - the next stage of the war is to besiege the Ten Towers and get the rest of Harlaw under our control."

"And Pyke?" asked Lord Stark.

"That's Tywin Lannister's problem. Right now we just need to get established here and let Stannis get back to ferrying the Army of the West." Robert took his hammer back. "We probably only need to worry about the larger islands but there are a lot of castles to siege. It's a good thing it's not later in the summer - chances are that they don't have a huge reserve of food."

"They might manage to resupply by sea," warned Gerion Lannister.

"I have an idea or two in mind for that." The usurper looked over at Viserys. "Remember what the King's Men are trained for?"

"To guard the royal family?"

"No, to defend King's Landing and its fortifications. The fact that that this also protects my family is a benefit but that's all. And if they can protect a castle then they would surely know how to best take one. They'd better, at least, or I've wasted a lot of gold on their training and equipment."


	15. Chapter 15

**Jon X**

Queen Alysanne was supervising the packing of the Royal Family's possessions, clearing their apartment in the White Sword Tower for the move to the Crown of Westeros.

"My lord Hand," she greeted Jon, curtseying in response to his deep bow.

"Your grace." He kissed her hand. "I have news from the West."

Her hand sought her throat. There was a locket there that she'd only worn since her husband left. "Robert?"

"He is well," Jon assured her swiftly. He held out a small roll of paper, small enough for a raven to bear. "He sends his regards. Viserys is also unhurt."

"Thank the Seven." She accepted the note. "Since Prince Stannis' injury..."

"While I don't wish his grace any misfortune whatsoever, I must say that if it was Robert that had lost half his leg it might be easier to keep him securely in King's Landing."

The Queen gave him a withering look. "Prince Jon, I don't believe that Robert would be slowed down by that any more than his brother. Aemma has sent me the most furious letter when she learned that her husband wasn't going to return from the war to recover from his injuries."

"There are ladies, your grace -" Jon was very careful not to name names "- who might very much prefer that their husband was absent extensively, leaving them charge of his lands and control of their child. For myself I'm very glad that Prince Stannis made a better match than that."

"Speaking of heirs..."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Again, your grace?"

She coloured. "I am not with child as yet, no. Nor am I to ply you for information about Lysa, having learned my lesson there. Although she does seem to have had a strange mood or two of late."

"I can only speculate." It was far too early to know if the book had led to heirs but Jon had to admit that encouraging Lysa to join him in bed more often was a considerable start towards it.

"Quite. It's actually Lord Bolton's heir I wanted to talk about. Did you know he has another son in the north?"

"Yes, living with his aunt I believe."

"Well he's talking about bringing young Domeric to court for a while. Lollys seems amenable but I'm not so sure the other Stokeworths will take it so well. I gather most of them thought Barton would inherit the northern lands and have little claim on his mother's inheritance, but now they're quite distraught to know that Barton is only the secondborn."

"I'd imagine so. Lord Bolton is more than able to defend his son though. The City Watch are far from his only resource."

"I'm more concerned about the conflict spreading. The Stokeworths and their allies control a great deal of land around King's Landing. A falling out while Robert is on the other side of Westeros isn't something that would be desirable. Particularly with a Lysene sellsail fleet at large somewhere."

"You've been talking to Lady Olenna."

"Among others." She turned her head slightly, watching some ornaments being packed carefully and nodded when she saw they were being well-cushioned. "The prospect of a fleet closing the Blackwater while the roads north are... uncertain. It is troublesome."

"Please permit me to set your mind at ease. If Saan is so bold as to threat the way then we can keep him from penetrating the Blackwater past the bay with a chain across the Rush so we will have a secure route to the south into the Kingswood. With the King's Men brought back to full strength despite the men with the King and reinforcements from the City Watch, we can certainly hold King's Landing long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the loyal Stormland lords."

"That puts my mind at ease," Alysanne admitted. "While Robert is here, the thought that someone might seek to overthrow his rule seems laughable but in his absence."

"Caution is far from the worst of traits, your grace," Jon assured her. "But even if Robert's enemies were to move they have no candidate to unite behind: there are no Targaryens left save for Viserys and Daenerys and they are closely protected."

"Daenerys is a sweet child, but Viserys... I am concerned by his temper."

The aged Prince couldn't entirely disagree, although the temper was less of a concern to him than ambition. Viserys was reaching manhood and if he managed to form alliances of his own he would become increasingly dangerous. It might have been better for him not to survive this war, he thought. But Robert has made it clear that only he will make that decision.

* * *

  
**Tywin XI**

Since a raven had preceded him, Tywin wasn't surprised to see his elder son disembarking from one of the supply ships. A little disappointed but not surprised.

"You have grandchildren," Jaime advised once he reached his father.

"I received the raven. Twins. Your wife is well?"

The young man nodded. "She's well. You did say -"

"I remember." He looked at Jaime and then shook his head. "Your uncle Tygett has our cavalry patrolling the coasts for any attempt to relieve our siege. Tell him you're taking over from him and send him back here."

The Ironborn had been on the back-foot since Stannis smashed the core of the Iron Fleet at Seagard. Save for a few castles, Pyke and Harlaw were in their hands but there was always the possibility that one of Balon's remaining brothers could pull an army together sufficient to try to retake their home.

Jaime nodded. "I'll need a horse then."

"Naturally." The letter he'd received from Genna had told him tersely that Jaime wasn't only here out of a desire not to miss the war. He and Cersei had quarrelled somehow, fiercely. Not something he was accustomed to from them, except when it came to their brother. "And Jaime."

"Father?"

"Remember that you'll be Prince of the Rock someday. The King has all but promised it. Cersei is Lady of Queenscrown, not of Casterly Rock."

Jaime lowered his head. "I remember, father."

"Good." With that dismissal, Tywin turned back to the problem of the Greyjoy's castle. Pyke, sharing a name with the island, had outer-works on the mainland but the keep and several towers stood on tall pillars of rock rearing out of the sea. The Ironborn had strung bridges between them but nothing substantial so even if the outer part of the castle was taken, one man with a knife could make the rest of Pyke almost inaccessible.

He'd requested - and been granted - a squadron of Royal galleys to patrol this part of the waters. Unless the Greyjoys got a ship or ships up against the pillars there would be no escape for them. Unfortunately, as Storm's End had shown, a castle garrison could hold out for months without additional supplies.

Tygett found him still studying the charts. "Jaime didn't waste time coming here."

"I would have preferred he spend more time with his wife now that she's given him heirs." Tywin turned away from the chart. "Pyke won't fall quickly or easily. The King's engineers are setting up siege engines but it is more likely to be hunger that ends their resistance."

"I could assemble a storming party."

"No." Tywin shook his head. "I'm sending you to take Saltcliffe. Prince Stannis has ordered the Redwyne fleet to provide transport. We can afford to wait for Greyjoy and it'll give me the time to see that whoever replaces him doesn't have the wealth to build a new fleet."

"A Lannister pays his debts."

"Indeed. The Tully's division will be sent to Wyk once shipping is available so pick your forces from the Reach levies as well as our own."

"That should be easy enough. It's not a large island."

"No, it isn't. Deal with them thoroughly."

"I'll take care of it." Tygett glanced up at the towers beyond Tywin's camp. "Greyjoy should have taken the King's terms. They were generous enough."

"Those who don't see which way the wind blows rarely bend in the right direction." The terms had been fairly generous, in fact: every adult Greyjoy man to take the black, compensation in goods and gold to the Lannisters and the Mallisters for damage done... and the Seastone Chair to King Robert who would probably treat it no more kindly than he had the Iron Throne.

* * *

  
**Ned XI**

The sea breeze blew away much of the tension that Ned had been carrying with him for the last few weeks. Harlaw's surrender had freed much of the army to move on Orkmont and Blacktyde, the next two islands to the west. But while Robert and Hoster Tully had taken command of those portions of the army, Ned had been left to deal with the aftermath.

In theory the terms were simple: Rodrik Harlaw had agreed to take the black before he even opened the gates of the Ten Towers. What hadn't been so clear before that was that both of the lord's sons had died in the war - one during the first clash of fleets and the other trying to break up the landings - at the hands of Viserys Targaryen, no less!

With a bitter laugh, the deposed lord had declined to take any hand in the settlement before departing for the Wall and that left Ned with the problem of determining the succession between three Harlaw cousins and Rodrik's great-uncle Sigryd Silverhair, who ruled the older Harlaw stronghold from before the construction of the Ten Towers.

It hadn't helped that Robert was still being very cagey about what would happen to the Iron Islands. It all depended, the King claimed, on what happened on Pyke. This didn't help with the need for Ser Harras Harlaw (Ned's choice as the new Lord Harlaw) to swear allegiance to whomever the Lord Paramount was of the Iron Isles.

There was a stumping noise and Ned turned to see Stannis Baratheon approaching, gripping one rail determinedly as he limped along on the wooden peg that filled the place of the missing foot. "Prince Eddard."

"Prince Stannis." Ned offered his hand.

Stannis turned to face out to sea and took a deep breath before speaking. "A strong wind. We'll reach Orkmont by tomorrow."

"I'll take your word for it. We Starks aren't natural sailors."

"Except the Manderlys. Whose wealth doesn't seem to sway you." The Baratheon shook his head. "How long have the Ironborn been savaging your fishing fleets?"

Ned frowned. "I've had no reports of that."

"Probably because your eastern lords are used to dealing with it themselves."

Now there was an uneasy idea. "I'll ask them then. If they're right then I suppose I'll be the first Stark since Brandon the Shipwright to build ships."

That got a grunt from Stannis. "What happened to him?"

"He tried to sail across the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. His son burned all the ships he'd built in grief."

"Fool."

Ned frowned. "To lose his father..." Memory caught at him. "Ah, my apologies." Steffon Baratheon - father of Robert, Stannis and Renly - had died with his lady in a shipwreck.

"I watched my father die at sea. I will never trust it. But only a fool ignores it."

"Are the Ironborn at sea, do you think?"

"Likely." The younger man accepted the change of subject. "Not as a single fleet though and they have no great number of war galleys left to them. The lords with sense have taken their ships home or hidden them."

"And those who don't?"

"Some have gone south and we'll likely hear from them in the Stepstones. The rest are why half our ships are patrolling the coasts of the islands." Stannis shook his head. "The longships are better for raiding than for attacking our ships. Save for the remaining war galleys they're no real threat any more."

Ned nodded. "So it's mostly a matter of taking their remaining strongholds."

"Robert seems to have a lot of faith in his King's Men for that."

Ned shrugged. Sieges hadn't played an immense role in Robert's Rebellion so he couldn't claim personal experience there. "They seemed to know what they were doing at the Ten Towers."

"Perhaps. But they haven't got Tywin Lannister into Pyke yet. Once I get you to Orkmont I'll be taking Robert across to Pyke with four hundred more of the King's Men."

"You're working your crews hard."

"We can't change the number of ships or the number of tasks. So there is no other way." Stannis glanced down at the rowers. "The squadron sent to Lonely Light should return within a week so the crews can rest then."

"And will you be resting too?" Ned indicated the other man's leg. "It's only a few months since you were injured."

"You sound like Davos. Or my wife."

"I've not met either, but they sound like sensible people."

* * *

  
**Varys IV**

"Let him pass," Varys called to the guards as he saw it was Arthur Dayne demanding entrance. The man was far more trouble than he was worth.

Dayne took his hand away from the hilt of his sword. Fortunately he hadn't drawn it or the magistrates would have paid attention. Not to mention that all four guards wouldn't be enough to actually stop the knight. Varys only actually expected them to slow such an intruder down long enough for him to respond.

"Come into my office, Ser Arthur," Varys said mildly. "Perhaps if we both try very hard we can have a conversation without causing a scene in public, hmmm?"

For a mercy Dayne waited until they were inside and the door closed before demanding: "Where has he gone?"

"I'm keeping track of hundreds of people for one reason or another," Varys said, steepling his hands. "Could you be more specific?"

"Connington, of course. Connington's vanished and he's the one who knows where the boy is."

"Oh? He didn't tell you?"

"Tell you what?"

"Where he's keeping the boy."

"No, so you tell me."

Varys shook his head. "Oh, but Robert Baratheon could have me seized at any time. My location isn't a secret after all. It's not safe for me to know where the boy is being raised."

"Well then - !"

"And no, I won't help you find him. His best defense right now is to remain hidden. And you're very bad at being discreet, Sir Arthur. There are many spies in Pentos and I can assure you that the Baratheons know you're here. Lord Connington has done the right thing by dropping out of sight."

Dayne rose to his feet and slammed his hands on the desk. "Then what am I to do, Varys! I am the last of the Kingsguard and he is my king!"

"You would have done better, my lord, to have remained at Starfall. There, without arousing too much suspicion, you could have laid the groundwork for Dorne to support a Targaryen restoration." When, or if, the time came. "Now, of course, you've drawn too much attention."

The knight stared at him. "Then..."

"Among his other qualities, for better or for worse, Robert is patient. He's giving his opponents every opportunity to make mistakes and then capitalizing on them one at a time. The Greyjoys are just the latest: he managed the Lannisters, playing them off against the Martells. He used the Reach's internal divisions against the Tyrells."

"Divide and conquer. That's why we need a Targaryen king. Only with that can we unite his enemies against them."

"And he has made another enemy: Pentos."

"Pentos? What's he done?"

Varys reached into a stack of correspondence and leafed through it. "A new decree by Jon Arryn but not the sort of thing he would have issued without Robert's support."

Dayne frowned and accepted the letter. "He's ruling that free bond servants are to be treated as slaves... that any who set foot in Westeros or who are aboard ships that dock in Westeros, are to be freed. What's a free bond servant?"

"Pentos was forced to forbid slavery by Braavos, eighty years ago. Free bond servants are technically freemen... but bound like slaves due to debts. A legal fiction."

"You just said he was patient: why would he do this?"

Varys nodded thoughtfully. "That's the question, isn't it. Particularly since the Greyjoys, although doomed, will keep his fleet and a substantial amount of Westeros' armies committed to the west for months to come. Pentos merchants will be forced to trade with Westeros at one remove..."

"A show of confidence, no..." The knight shook his head. "Is he trying to win favour with Braavos?"

"In part, yes. And also, I believe, with the Septons. The Faith of the Seven is very rigid on many matters and they disapprove of slavery even more than they did the Targaryen's incestuous marriages."

"So he's courting the Septs... I don't see where you're going."

Varys leant forwards. "Andalos."

"Andalos?"

"Indeed. The traditional homeland of the Andals, and one currently controlled by Pentos for the most part." Varys smiled. "So he has the ancient Andal faith on his side, strongest on the Reach and he's shown he cares nothing for Pentos..."

"He intends on conquests on this side of the Narrow Sea!"

"It fits together, doesn't it," said Varys. "Of course, no one here in Pentos would believe it. History shows that Westeros may be invaded from Essos but who has ever managed the reverse?"

Dayne rose and walked from one wall to another. "If he can manage it... he'll have expended the military might of the most powerful of his internal enemies, secured immense prestige... not to mention the wealth of his conquests."

"What I recommend - I would not," Varys added, "Presume to direct you - would be that you explore joining an Essosian sellsword company. With Connington dropping out of sight, we have limited connections there. And the prince will need an army once he is ready to become king, will he not?"

The knight nodded. "You've given me a lot to think about."

"I'm always glad to help you, my friend." The eunuch took out parchment and quill. "I'll give you a letter of introduction to my friend Illyrio Mopatis. I wouldn't suggest entrusting him with our real concerns but he'll be glad to help you find a place."

The knight left after more professions of gratitude - a considerable change from his earlier attitude. Varys shook his head once the door had closed. That should keep him busy and out of trouble, at least for a few years. I wonder what Robert's real goal is. Pentos isn't his most valued trading partner but it's far from the least...


	16. Chapter 16

**Viserys VI**

There was hardly a roof to any of the houses on Pyke. Tywin Lannister had one of the few exceptions as his headquarters and the Usurper had declined politely when the Lord of Casterly Rock offered to give it up to his overlord.

"Your duties as Warden make this the best location for you," he assured Tywin. "There's what's left of a village perhaps a mile closer to port, I'm sure my squire can see that it's made habitable for me."

"As you think best, your grace," the older man replied drily.

"Not that I won't be here most days anyway." Robert had lifted a cut of pork onto his plate and started cutting it. "You lay a good table, war-camp or not."

The Lannister had puffed up at the flattery, then offered more wine.

"The fighting here must have been terrible," Viserys noted an hour later as tent-clothes were laced down over what had once been a fisherman's cottage, he thought.

Robert shook his head, looking up from the papers he'd been brought by the King's Men already on Pyke. "This wasn't fighting, lad."

"But this entire village was burned out."

"Gleaning."

Viserys frowned. "What?"

"The Lion turned his men loose to sack the island," Jorah Mormont explained, carefully not looking at Ser Gerion. "They'll have looted everything portable and burned the rest."

"Deliberately or otherwise." Gerion rubbed his chin. "Soldiers always seem to set fires given half a chance."

"Then this is what it's like all across Pyke?"

"Probably." The Lannister gave Viserys a harsh look. "It's what your father would have done to King's Landing, if my nephew hadn't stopped him, so wipe that look off your face."

"Gerion." Having returned to the parchments, the Usurper didn't look up again nor raise his voice. "Please convey my invitation to your brother and nephew to dine with me on the morrow at mid-day."

"Of course, your grace." The knight bowed and departed, with another withering look at Viserys.

Robert waited until the sound of the horse hooves had faded before adding quietly. "Doesn't make it right, though."

"Then why don't you do something about it?"

"I can't unscramble eggs, Viserys. And there are limits to what a king can demand of his lords, at least if he expects to be king for very much longer. I believe he'll have cause to stop doing this soon though, and to perhaps think more cautiously about it in the future."

"What do you have in mind, your grace?" asked Mormont.

Rather than answering, Robert shook his head and began giving instructions to the King's Men. The wind chose that moment to pick up and Viserys had to climb the wall to help the men with the tent-cloths or they might have lost it entirely.

That night there was a sound like thunder. Startled awake, Viserys sat up and listened to the wind. He'd expected no storm, but no further thunder rolled and after several minutes he lay back down and went back to sleep.

Shortly after dawn the next morning, the murderer of Viserys' father rode up to the cottage, horse lathered.

Robert raised a mug of ale in casual salute to the golden-haired man. "Jaime, you're up early. Do you want some bacon? Viserys, take care of that!"

With a scowl, Viserys unwrapped more bacon from the supply bag and cut a thick slice off, putting it in the frying pan.

"I thank you, your grace." The Lannister bowed deeply to the Usurper and then clasped hands with his uncle. "Sir, the Sea Tower of Pyke has collapsed overnight."

"Imagine that."

Viserys was far from the only one who noticed the unsurprised tone of Robert's voice. Taking advantage of Jaime's distraction, the squire leant over and spat on the bacon, which sizzled.

"Was this your doing, your grace?"

"You might think that, but I couldn't possibly comment. Has it given the men in the other towers any second thoughts?"

"I would hope so," Jaime replied. "My father ventures to suggest that you might wish to join him at his camp."

"As soon as I've broken my fast."

Viserys flipped the bacon onto a slab of half-leavened flatbread and pressed a second flatbread on top of it, creating what Robert called a 'bacon sandwich'. "Your breakfast, Ser Jaime."

The Lannister gave him a startled look. "I'd heard you were the king's squire, Viserys."

"I have to do something with my life."

"Yes..." Jaime eyed the sandwich carefully and then bit into it cautiously. He swallowed and Viserys hoped he'd managed to keep his face from showing satisfaction. "I never thought I'd see the day you made my breakfast for me."

* * *

  
**Tywin XII**

Precisely as Tywin had expected, Robert Baratheon had complete rejected the idea of sitting on the Seastone Chair. Instead he ordered that it be carried down to one of the carracks docked at the port. If he was a gambling man, Tywin would have laid a substantial amount of gold on the chances of the ancient stone throne being lost overboard out in deep waters.

Instead, Robert sat on a simple chair, draped with no more than his cloak. "All of Balon's children?" he asked coolly.

Chained in front of him, the tall and beak-nosed Aeron Greyjoy nodded grimly. "Aye. The Storm God claimed two of my brothers, two nephews and even young Asha."

Revenge tasted sweet. Balon Greyjoy's firstborn son Rodrik had died at the first battle of Seagard. With the death of Euron at the hands of Tyrion, the once feared Lords of the Iron Isles were reduced to only one survivor.

The only fly in the ointment was that Robert's means of destroying the Seatower remained a secret. The claim that it was an act of the Ironborn's hated Storm God was clearly a convenient lie - the Baratheons' siege train would be a factor in any further conflicts.

"I will bend the knee to you as Lord of the Iron Islands," Aeron promised.

Robert raised one coal-black eyebrow. "Bend your knee if you will, but you will not be lord of the Iron Islands."

"I crave your pardon, your grace. As Lord of Pyke then."

"Remove his chains." The King placed one hand on the haft of his hammer. "I offered Balon the chance to preserve your House if every adult Greyjoy took the black. Why would I be more generous to you."

Aeron swallowed. "There is no one else. I am the last of the Greyjoys."

"Yes... you're also a traitor. You followed Balon to the end." Robert shook his head. "Take the black. Make yourself useful to Westeros, for once."

Colour leached from the Greyjoy's face. "No."

"No?"

"Trial by combat, that's my right! Let the gods decide!"

"The gods seem to have already spoken." Jaime pointed out to where the Seatower should have stood.

Robert grimaced. "That is the law, yes. Very well. Do you stand for yourself or do you have a champion, Aeron Greyjoy."

The man looked around but none of the other Ironborn who'd surrendered would meet his eyes. "Myself."

Jaime walked over to where the Ironborn had been disarmed and produced Aeron's sword. He threw the scabbarded weapon across to Aeron and then bowed to Robert. "Your grace, if I may champion you?"

Tywin watched in pride as Jaime clearly dominated the duel, crippling Aeron's sword arm and then relieving the man of his head without receiving so much as a scratch.

"Who will rule the Iron Islands in his place?" asked another of the Ironborn.

Robert rose to his feet and lifted his hammer, resting it across his shoulder. "There will be no one lord and you will look to no king but myself and my heirs."

"You take the islands for yourself?"

"Have I not paid the iron price?" The King glared at them and then shook his head. "But no. Ruling you from the Easterlands would never work. Pyke and Saltcliffe will become part of the Westerlands and the other islands will be divided between the Riverlands and the North." He looked over to Tywin. "I trust the wealth of the mines here and on Saltcliffe will make up for only receiving two islands out of seven?"

Victory soured in Tywin's mouth as he recalled his orders to wreck both islands, including the mines. Especially the mines. He nodded, reluctantly. At least no one on either island would dare challenge the Lannisters after the way they'd been treated so far.

* * *

  
**Jon XI**

There were letters piled on Jon's writing desk - significant letters, for they spoke of the next generation of great lords. Jaime Lannister's twins, Cerwyn and Tommen were thriving without their father's presence and Lady Stark had given birth to a second son: Crejon Stark.

North and west were secure. The Reach's great houses were as fertile as their lands and Prince Doran's marriage was fruitful. Jon could sympathise with Hoster Tully's wish to see his brother and son wed and secure his line. Another Hightower marriage could put more pressure on the Tyrells or a Tyrell marriage to bring them back into favour...

He rose, tossing a paperweight onto the letters to hold them in place. Throwing open the window Jon felt the east wind against his face, fresh compared to air that had blown past the city. Almost like the winds around the Eyrie...

He couldn't concentrate today. How could he...

Lysa is with child!

Hope for an heir of his body warred with memories of past disappointments. Two wives, both much loved and yet no living children.

Will this be more grief or relief at last?

Then there was a shift in the wind and he could smell King's Landing again. "By the Gods. Robert must have a point. No wonder he took Alysanne to bear his children at Storm's End."

The idea caught at his mind. "...go back to the Eyrie." The Hand chuckled. "What was that Robert said years ago? Father a dozen little Arryns and make him foster them all?"

Jon didn't think Lysa would appreciate a dozen children but the thought of an heir being born in Eyrie appealed to him.

Going back to the desk he began sorting through the letters. While he and the clerks would have gone through it all whether the King was here or not, there was nothing there that he didn't think Robert could cope with. He'd come a long way from the rash boy Jon recalled from ten years ago. If he did go back to the Eyrie, the Seven Kingdoms would be in safe hands.

And I could do with the time in the Vale. The Mountain Clans are getting too confident and there are too many of my bannermen I haven't seen since last autumn.

The real question is... don't hide from this, if I walk away will I be able to return? Robert will need to appoint another Hand and there's no other Valeman in a position here since Corbray's death. I want to take some of Robert's ideas back to the Vale, keep us from being left behind, but without me here... would we find ourselves isolated politically?

He sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. There's no reason more Valemen couldn't be brought in. Perhaps.... yes, one of the Arryn's of Gulltown might do well to support the Master of Coin. We have enough trouble finding someone to suit there so perhaps someone with merchant ties would do well there. Sharra's husband Geord might do well there.

"Someone of more stature perhaps..." he mused out loud. "Lord Royce could well win a place in the Royal Guards if he wished... or perhaps his elder son might serve a while under the Master of Laws."

Reaching for some parchment, Jon started putting his thoughts in order for the letters required. It wasn't until he dipped quill to ink that he realised that he'd made his decision: while calling for the men he wanted to come to court would be a good idea in any case, he was also going to be selfish. Five - almost six years now - was long enough. It was time to put his own House first.

With his spare hand he added a fresh parchment to those in front of him. He'd be writing to Robert as well.

If Robert was to appoint a new Hand in time for Jon to take his family back to the Eyrie, he would have to start considering the appointment straight away.

* * *

  
**Barristan IV**

Lannisport hadn't changed greatly since Barristan had last been here. Despite the destruction wreaked by the Ironborn, the Westerlanders had rebuilt it almost entirely as it had been. Perhaps the idea was that in a year or two no one would be able to tell there had been any damage.

He would have liked to say that the reason he went to Lannisport, rather than home to his family, was merely that all ships were stopping there and he wanted to follow up on the idea of buying Dornish horses before next winter. But the news that the King would - in honour of the victory over the Greyjoys - host the annual Royal Tourney at Lannisport and that Tywin Lannister would be doubling all prizes...

Well. Ashara would know the reasons as well as he did. So he should just endeavour not to disappoint her.

"There's a great crowd," he observed to Willem Dustin. "Isn't it only the archery today?"

"I don't think most of the people here are expecting the archery to be exciting," the other northern lord told him. "But the King is knighting the men who caught his eye or that of the Princes and Lords Paramount during the war. Most of them will be jousting or in the melee..."

"So everyone wants to take their measure to know how to bet?"

"Exactly!"

"Well, it's not my first tourney," Barristan reminded the younger lord gently.

Out in front of the crowds, Robert Baratheon stood tall and proud as he knighted men from all around Westeros. Even scions of the grandest houses knelt to receive the accolade from his hands - Willas Tyrell was perhaps the highest born to kneel before the King's sword.

Not the highest born present, however. He was matched by Tyrion Lannister but when the little man came up to the dais he requested that his brother be allowed to knight him. Barristan's one time brother amongst the Kingsguard had therefore been called forwards and with a brilliant smile he tapped his sword upon the dwarf's shoulders, charging him to be brave and just, to defend the young and innocent and all the other oaths of knighthood.

Tywin Lannister's face was the same distant mask he'd worn as any other man was knighted.

Even the sons of two Lord Paramounts weren't quite the highest born though.

"Your pardon, cousin." Viserys Targaryen held up his hand as Robert lifted the sword. The boy's tone wasn't apologetic in the slightest. "With your permission, I would be knighted by another."

"You have my consent, but who do you have in mind?"

Viserys turned, scanning the crowd. Barristan saw violet eyes much like those of the boy's other relatives flicker. "Lord Barristan!"

"Oh? Well, very well then." The king stepped forwards. "Lord Selmy, if you would be willing, please join us here."

It would be hard to refuse and so Barristan moved out of the crowd and drew his sword, thinking back to Rhaegar's knighting, years ago. "Viserys Targaryen." He tapped the youngster on one shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior..." The familiar oath came from his oaths. What sort of knight was he making? Would he look back at this day and regret this?

Robert had been willing to knight him, so perhaps it would be alright. Then again, the Stag King could be fairly reckless, Barristan thought.

"Rise, Ser Viserys," he said at last and helped the young knight up to his feet.

"Please join us here for the rest of the ceremonies," the King requested. "After all, someone else might want to be knighted by Barristan the Bold."

He was right, in fact, and two more young men asked for the accolade from Barristan's hand rather than the King's. That wasn't the final disruption however.

“Sandor Clegane,” called the herald, summoning the next future knight. Scions of the major houses had all been knighted and now it was men from knightly houses that were being called on.

But this time, despite the call, there was no response from inside the crowd.

"Sandor Clegane!"

Lord Lannister looked around irritably and then pointed into the crowd at a a man wearing the same heraldry on his tabard that the Mountain had worn. "Clegane!" he roared. "Come forwards, I say! And take your helm off!"

For a moment it seemed that the Clegane heir would defy Lord Lannister, but then the man forced his way through the crowd and stood before the dais. He unfastened his helm and removed it, revealing a face rendered a horror by terrible burns across the left side of his face.

There were gasps from those who hadn’t seen the sight before. Even Robert seemed taken aback, but he gathered his wits quickly. “Lord Tywin speaks highly of your skill at arms,” he said. “Will you accept knighthood from my hands?”

“No.”

There was another stir. Barristan could see Tywin clenching his fists. In contrast, Robert remained calm. “That is your right,” he answered. “I ask – and only ask, this is no command – if you would share your reasons.”

In answer Clegane turned his face, further exposing the ruin that spread from his left jaw up to where an ear should have been. “This was a knight’s work. A man honoured and feted around the kingdom. I know how empty knighthood is.”

A smiled flickered at the king’s lips. “You speak boldly and honestly, Lord Clegane. Does this knight still live?”

“No.”

“Good.” Robert leant forwards. “It is the men who make knighthood what it is, not knighthood the men. As an alternative to knighthood, I have another position that might suit you.”

“The Royal Guards?” Tywin proposed.

“Actually,” the king said drily, “It strikes me that the Master of Laws could do with a lieutenant of Lord Clegane’s quality.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Jon XII**

The Moon Door of the Eyrie had a way of bringing out the truth from a man. Out of consideration for Lysa, though, Jon had decided to deal with this matter at the Bloody Gate rather than in the Eyrie. She was with child for the third time, and after the miscarriage she suffered last time he didn't want her to have to face seeing her childhood friend so disgraced.

Fortunately, by sheer happenstance, there was another factor that could have a similar effect upon men.

"I appreciate you making time for this matter, Lord Bolton."

The northern lord made a gesture of dismissal. "I am grateful for your hospitality."

"I'm sure your son will do well at the Redfort," Jon assured him. He'd seen a little of Domeric at King's Landing, before his resignation and he'd seemed like a promising enough boy.

Bolton nodded and accepted the seat next to Jon at the high table. "King Robert asked me to visit you on my way to the Dreadfort."

"Something he didn't want to entrust to ravens?" Jon wondered what could be so sensitive.

"He would prefer this not spark rumours." Bolton leant over and with his already quiet voice, it seemed unlikely he would be overheard. "His grace anticipates calling a Great Council to coincide with the next Royal Tournament. He wanted you to be forewarned."

Jon's brow furrowed. A Great Council was usually the sign of a major succession problem but that was hardly the case here. Why would Robert feel the need for that? Was young Eddard well? Was Robert himself ailing?

He could see why Robert didn't entrust this to a raven. Even if the two Maesters involved were loyal to he and Jon, there was some risk of the news getting back to the Citadel where Pycelle was, according to all reports, still nursing his grudge and gathering support.

"Did he say why?"

Bolton shook his head. "He also asked me to pass on his best wishes for Lysa's pregnancy."

Jon smiled. That hadn't changed over the years. Robert still doted on children. His own, legitmate or otherwise, and those of his close confidants. It wouldn't have surprised Jon if that was the only reason Viserys had survived the difficult months of bringing him back into the court.

And speaking of court, the doors opened and the prisoner was marched in to stand before Jon and Lord Bolton. Lord Baelish had been allowed to clean himself up before facing judgement and even provided with fresh clothes from his own wardrobe. The boy - no, Jon reminded himself, Petyr was a man in the eyes of the law - had foolishly offered the servant who recovered them the location of some of his hidden gold in exchange for being allowed to leave the locked chamber he'd been confined in.

The servant, no fool, had accepted and Petyr Baelish had divulged the information on leaving the chamber... but not the tower, since three Arryn swornswords were hidden between him and the door. After a fashion it might be considered amusing and Jon had permitted the four men involved to take the gold and divide it between themselves. He'd also remember their names. Resourceful men like that were a prize beyond gold.

"Lord Baelish, I trust you have the wit to remember why you are here?"

The young man took a knee. "Yes, your highness."

Jon placed his hand on one of the short stacks of parchments before him. "You have your advocates, Petyr. Several testaments to your diligence and an impressive financial report that shows a tenfold increase in revenues at Gulltown. A friend to all men... quite a feat for any tax collector, much less one of your tender years." He paused. "And an old friend of my wife, of course."

Lord Bolton arched an eyebrow. "And the other parchments, Prince Arryn?"

"Accounts of his personal ventures, which have been extremely successful. Not entirely because he appears to have spared himself paying customs duties and to have borrowed his initial investments from the city on his own authority. A modest enough perquisite of the post, until he started buying the debts he owed from the city through intermediaries. At pennies on the stag, I'd add."

He turned over the paper. "Loans. Very keen on having money that you lend repaid, Lord Baelish. Although it seems you've diligently repaid the ever-increasing loans the Iron Bank have made to Gulltown, under your signature." Another page. "And then there's the matter of the bribes accepted, the accidents suffered by certain merchants who elect not to take out this... insurance arrangement."

"Insurance?" Bolton's eyes narrowed slightly. "Insurance of what, if I may ask?"

"That accidents do not befall the merchants. One must say that it seems surprisingly necessary to make these payments to avoid misfortune in Gulltown these days."

Baelish shivered as Lord Bolton looked him up and down. "Ah. I recall such arrangements in King's Landing. Except we refer to the payments as 'protection', an illicit tax imposed on the smallfolk by those of a criminal nature. His grace felt that smallfolk who pay their lawful taxes should have all necessary protection already."

Jon nodded. "Not an original idea then." He stacked the papers up. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Baelish swallowed. "Your highness, everything I did was in furtherance of my office. Trade has boomed at Gulltown and you yourself mentioned the wealth I have brought to you as a result. The insurance arrangements were a response to the hazards that have also entered the port and see how those men who have secured themselves thus have prospered. I confess that my book-keeping may have been lax and would gladly make good anything I have mistakenly withheld that is another's due."

"As I recall, the King believes in giving men chances. Second chances also, if on less generous terms. He is less keen, I believe, on third chances." Jon rubbed his chin. "Still, you have been very industrious. Your opinion, Lord Bolton?"

"For a man who has damaged the integrity of your most prominent port?" The northerner considered. "A fine equal to moneys taken in this protection racket and then sell the debts he just admited he owes you to the Iron Bank. He'd also be liable for anything the Iron Bank haven't had back from Gulltown."

Peytr went as white as a sheet.

"Lord Tully gave you your first chance," Jon said flatly. "I gave you your second. It seems to me that you're resourceful enough you could probably find the money to pay both fines and debts. The damage to your good name would be less repairable. I'm minded to do as Lord Bolton suggests, but if you would like to preserve something of your reputation, I'm willing to let it be known that you have repented your poor judgement and sought absolution with the Night's Watch. This, of course, would leave your patrimony and your other assets intact to be used to settle your financial obligations."

"You are... most merciful, Prince Arryn," Baelish managed to grate out. "I... I would be most grateful for the chance you're offering me to make amends."

"Perhaps you'd like to escort him as far as the Dreadfort, Lord Bolton?"

Roose Bolton smiled slightly. "I would be delighted, your highness."

* * *

  
**Ned XII**

"Peytr?" exclaimed Catelyn as Lord Bolton's party rode through the gates of Winterfell.

Ned scanned the riders. He recognised Roose Bolton, of course, and a couple of the man's swornswords. That left... hmm. A bedraggled man, dressed warmly but plainly. He was also unarmed, as far as Ned could see he wasn't even carrying a belt-knife. "Who?"

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "My father fostered him. Lord Baelish - from the Vale."

"Oh." Then he recognised the name: Lord Petyr Baelish had opposed the proposed marriage of Catelyn to Ned's brother Brandon, to the point of challenging the Stark heir to a duel. For the life of him, Ned couldn't recall anything else about him.

There was no time further for private conversation as Bolton dismounted and approached them, dropping to one knee before Ned. "Prince Stark."

"Lord Bolton." Ned reached out and raised him to his feet. "Welcome back to Winterfell."

There was a moment that threatened to become awkward silence but Catelyn stepped forwards. "It must have been ten years since we met, Lord Bolton."

"Indeed. Your marriage feast at Riverrun," agreed Bolton.

"I know King Robert has written to Ned, commending how you've restored King's Landing after the sack," she continued. "Please join us in the hall and tell us the news from the capital."

"Certain matters may be better discussed in Lord Stark's solar."

"Then we can talk there," Ned agreed. "Ser Rodrik will take care of your men. Will Lord Baelish be joining us?"

"Lord Baelish is on the way to the Wall."

"The Wall!" exclaimed Catelyn. Ned, looking past Bolton, saw Baelish flinch.

"In private, perhaps," he suggested, letting the tone of his voice tell his wife and vassal that it wasn't a suggestion. "I am sure Ser Rodrik can also see to Lord Baelish's quartering."

Ned led the way through Winterfell and up the stairs to his solar where Martyn Cassell was studying some reports. His old comrade had shown quite a flair for managing the farms around Winterfell, particularly those that had been cleared to test the southern techniques Robert had provided details on. This wasn't the moment though and Ned had to ask him to step out and ensure that he wasn't disturbed.

"Lord Bolton," declared Catelyn as soon as the door was closed behind Martyn. "I've known Petyr since he was a boy and I can't imagine that taking the Black was his idea."

"Indeed, Lady Stark." Bolton placed one hand on a chair in front of the desk and Ned gestured for him to sit as he went behind it.

There was a bottle of southern wine he'd been sent by his goodfather two years ago, still unopened, resting next to several cups and Ned poured for himself, for Catelyn and for Lord Bolton. The broad desk had more than enough room for the cups and for a platter bearing bread and salt, which he also offered to the visitor, even with a stack of reports from the farms heaped in one corner. "Let Lord Bolton tell the tale, Cat," he said quietly.

"Thank you, your highness." Bolton salted a morsel of bread, popped it into his mouth and chewed for a moment before washing it down with the wine. "You may recall that King Robert elected to reform the realm's tax records shortly after he won his throne."

"It was one of his first decisions." Ned recalled Robert later saying deprecatingly that if he had to spend time counting coppers, the paperwork should at least be made simple enough for him to do so without wasting half a day on every page.

"Even with the unfortunate history of Masters of Coin until Prince Stannis took charge of the Crown's finances, the King's coffers are said to be as full as they were under Tywin Lannister. Proof of their effectiveness." Bolton sipped from his cup again. "When he took leave of his post as Hand to return to the Eyrie, Prince Arryn decided to make similar reforms to his own finances. Alas, Lord Baelish's figures did not add up."

"He'd been shorting his taxes?" asked Ned. It wasn't unheard of and he had to admit that the Karstark tax payments, in particular, had been disappointing compared to previous summers.

"The taxes gathered from Gulltown - you knew he was in charge of their customs? - were inexplicably high."

"How is that a problem?" asked Catelyn. "Surely, being effective is no crime."

"I gather that your sister drew it to Prince's attention, nominating Lord Baelish as someone to help him with the project. However, it was unclear how the revenues had been increased so far and thus it was investigated." Bolton shook his head. "Apparently the man had borrowed in the name of House Arryn, House Grafton and the city's own treasury, invested that money in his own right and used some of the revenues to inflate the taxes he reported while pocketing at least as much."

Ned frowned. That sounded wrong but he couldn't put his finger on how it was more than creative.

"Well as long as the loans were repaid, I don't see the harm there!" exclaimed Catelyn. "He was hardly stinting Prince Arryn, after all."

Bolton tilted his hand slightly. "Ah, but he was doing no more than servicing the debts. Without knowing it, Prince Arryn was left with a significant debt to the Iron Bank, not to mention a lesser one that of Pentos."

Catelyn's face paled. "Oh."

"And once that was uncovered, certain other irregularities were discovered." Bolton was looking at Ned's wife with a slight edge of... something Ned didn't like. He thought it was something like a cat playing with a mouse. "Other crimes, in fact. I would not disturb a lady, but after more than ten years, I suggest that you may know Lord Baelish less well than you think."

"I find it hard to imagine," Catelyn said, not meeting Bolton's eyes and picking at her shirt. Much like Sansa might on the rare occasions she was reprimanded. "But if Prince Arryn, and yourself, are convinced..."

"Of course."

Catelyn rose, her wine still hardly touched. "If you will excuse me, I believe I am overdue to check with the kitchens. We shall be having a feast, to celebrate your return to the North."

"I am truly honoured." Bolton dipped his head as she walked past him and left the room.

Ned wasn't afraid to meet Bolton's eyes and he gave the man a frown once he had his attention. "It's a shame you bring ill news for my wife," he said simply.

"I could hardly object to Prince Arryn asking me to see him as far north as my way goes," replied the heir to the Red Kings of old. "Though if I meet a wandering crow, I will gladly part company. Did you know he brags to have deflowered your wife and her sister."

"WHAT!?"

"An unlikely story, but still..." Bolton drained what was left of his cup. "I believe none of it, but perhaps it is best not to have him long in Winterfell."

Ned realised he had half-risen to his feet and forced himself to sit down. "I agree." He thought a moment. "If you were to leave him at Long Lake then Lyanna can arrange for him to be taken north from there." And Lyanna could ensure Baelish was suitably quartered.

The lord leant forwards. "I also bear this letter for you from King Robert." He produced a folded document, still bearing the unbroken royal seal in wax, from his doublet.

Ned accepted it and cracked the seal, unfolding it. It took him a moment to gather the consequence of the contents. "Robert wants me to be his Hand?"

To his private pleasure that fact appeared to startle the Bolton, at least to a flicker of the eyes. "I could not say, Prince Stark. But Lord Estermont is not a young man, and as his wife is with child I would imagine Prince Arryn prefers to remain in his mountains for now."

Checking the letter again, Ned pursed his lips. 'I know you Starks have trouble in the south, but let us lift that curse, Ned,' Robert had written. 'In a year or two Jon may be ready to return or Stannis ready for the role. He can still be a bit blunt - and this is me writing that! In the meantime, you are well placed to counsel me for the matter I wish to lay before a Great Council in the near future.'

Ned looked up, realising he was leaving Bolton waiting. "I'll need to give this some thought," he said, unlocking a drawer where he kept secure correspondence. "But in the meantime, I should let you get settled in at the Guest Hall."

* * *

  
**Varys V**

"It would be unlikely that King Robert would call a Great Council in order to go to war with Pentos," Varys assured Illyrio as they lounged opposite each other on couches, wine close to hand and the remains of a fine meal being removed from the table between them.

"I admit to being uncertain of the extent of his authority," his old friend replied. "The Targaryens could rule arbitarily, at least while they had dragons at their command. Since that changed, I would anticipate that the various lords may be less closely bound."

"The lords of Westeros are raised for war." Varys looked into the surface of his wine for a moment. "It would take little to stir them to the prospect of battle and plunder. Organising the logistics of shipping thousands of men across the Narrow Sea would be more challenging but..." He drained the cup and set it down. "Oh he could do it. It would take months for the western levies to arrive but he could have an army from his own domain and the Vale here within two months... six or seven weeks after I heard about it."

"Your famous little flowers."

"Those and a few little birds that he didn't manage to find."

"Your friend, Arthur, he seemed to think that you felt King Robert would want to reclaim Andalos for his faith."

"Ser Arthur is a direct man, who functions best with a clear and martial purpose. Robert Baratheon would have been dismissed as nothing more than that before he was king."

"And now?"

Varys held out his goblet to be refilled. "I believe he is a player."

"Ah." Ilyrio rubbed his beard with beringed fingers. "Nor is he friendly to Pentos."

Calling Pentos out on the issue of bond service had certainly damaged trade between Westeros and the city, but Varys gathered that Braavos had more than made up the difference. These days there was a permanent representative of the Westerosi King resident in Pentos' northern neighbour, one who was at least listened to by the Sealord.

"I wouldn't rule out a Great Council as a cover for planning for war," Varys conceded. "But it is traditionally called to settle matters of royal succession. Every lord of any note in the Seven Kingdoms has a voice and vote at such a time. At least informally such a council - in the form of rebel lords - acclaimed Robert as king."

"Are there matters of succession that might require a Council? The king has a son, healthy as of the last I had heard."

"Prince Eddard is, so far as I know, in good health. Since Queen Alysanne gave birth to another daughter only a year ago, there's every possibility he might have a brother someday. And, of course, there are the king's brothers." Varys paused. "Which may be the answer perhaps."

Illyrio's eyes narrowed. "You're not thinking of the younger?"

"Bold young Prince Renly? It seems unlikely, but Stannis Ironfoot is a rising man. Until Prince Jon had a son, Stannis' own son was a strong candidate to rule the Vale. And, of course, he remains second in line to wear the crown of Westeros."

"A crown for himself and a kingdom for his son to rule... a tempting thing for an ambitious lord, I would think. Is this Ironfoot such a man?"

"He is a man who keeps close counsel. His own lands are prosperous enough but they are only a small part of the Easterlands. He may feel short-changed, having lost a foot in service to his brother and yet he appears to have Robert's trust, with the appointment as Master of Coin..."

"Westerosi ideas of finance are primitive. Could he have bankrupted the Kingdom?"

Varys nodded thoughtfully. "If Robert wished to formally exclude Stannis from the succession then a Great Council would be necessary to enforce such a matter, since by definition, Robert would be in no position to do so once it became an issue. But I have no signs of such. We are building mountains of air."

"Then you may need something better than air." Illyrio toyed with his goblet. "The magisters are concerned and there is some expectation that you will keep them informed."

"My broadsheet only costs a few coppers."

"More than that."

Varys tried to smile. Influence and the chance to play the game again. The challenge of it. This was what he had hoped for, was it not... Years of building up his network again, of handling often minor and grubby secrets.

So why did he feel that this was a dangerous step.

No, that was foolish. He felt that because it was the truth. Why did he feel this was a step he would regret? Was he getting old?

"When the Great Council convenes, it won't only be lords who attend," he said instead. "My old colleague Pycelle will be attending, among the Maesters. He has no fondness for Robert, having been forced out of his position as Grand Maester. I'll see what he has to say."

"I knew I could rely on you, old friend."

"Naturally," Varys said with a smile he didn't feel.

* * *

  
**Olenna VI**

"Mace, if the King told me why he called this council then he would have done so in confidence. Since sharing it with you means sharing it with anyone you choose to tell, not to mention anyone who overhears you talking about it. And then anyone they happen to mention it to or around. You see how that works?" Olenna paused for breath.

"Mo-"

"No, of course not, what was I thinking? In any case, he didn't tell me so you're wasting your time, as usual." She leant on her stick as she walked past where the Reach lords were.

Mace made to follow her for a moment but Paxter Redwyne caught his attention and drew him back to his chair, talking to him about Randyll Tarly and their recent disagreement over the Redwyne ships. Having already heard about it in great detail from other sources, Olenna found no need to go back and hear it all again.

While hundreds of lords had assembled from the Seven Kingdoms, they didn't come close to filling the great space at the heart of the Dragonpit - or as the King insisted on re-naming it, the Crown of Westeros. A modest oval of stone was raised out of the centre of the vast tiled floor, barely knee high on the King and the throne sat upon it, facing north. A great arc of chairs faced the humble chair that still wore the cloak of Baratheon heraldry as its only adornment - the Red Keep had been stripped of almost every remaining seat to supply them.

As one of the Small Council, Olenna sat slightly apart, not on the dais but immediately to the right. Grand Maester Colemon was already there, glancing occasionally across the dais to where a handful of men who didn't fall neatly into any category sat. The High Septon was there, as was a stooped man in the black of the Night's Watch. It was the small party of Maesters that drew Colemon's attention though.

"Pycelle hasn't died yet, I see." Olenna sniffed as she took her chair. "He's been claiming to be infirm for too long to be plausible."

"He's an astute man," the current Grand Maester replied quietly. "Perhaps the more so that he hides the fact."

"Bah. If he won't share with the King then who is that astute mind in service to? Robert was right to rid himself of the man."

There was a stir among the eastern lords and Olenna craned her head around to see Robert Baratheon striding across the floor, leading the rest of the Small Council. Out of deference to his brother, the king was restraining his usual vigorous stride which also gave the remaining lords time to take their seats.

Even once he reached the council, Robert didn't seem in haste. Instead he threaded his way through the seated lords, working around the arc, greeting many of the men by name, shaking hands with some and offering nods or other greetings to the rest. He wasn't just setting them at ease, the Queen of Thorns noted, he was also giving the Small Council time to get settled. Lord Bolton took a seat next to her, as had been his custom for years, while Stannis and his replacement as Master of Ships, Ser Davos Seaworth, took adjacent seats. Olenna had found the common-born sailor to be a startlingly valuable addition to the council. Hesitant to speak at times but when he did speak the words were usually well thought out.

Stafford Lannister took the last seat. He'd only recently replaced Stannis as Master of Coins, following yet another sideways movement of Stannis to take up the post of Master of Laws. Lord Estermont had to all practical purposes continued to effectively control that position even while he was Hand. Without him the incumbent had managed all of one stumbling meeting with the King before offering his own resignation.

"So do you have your eye on my seat next, or Lord Bolton's?" Olenna asked the Prince as Robert reached the Vale lords and stopped to embrace Jon Arryn as if the man was his father.

Stannis took his eyes off the king and then jerked his head over to Eddard Stark. "There."

"Ah." The northern prince was standing next to the throne. Standing almost motionless and wearing his customary grey he was almost like a statue. It suited him, rigid as stone. Honourable, yes, but being the Hand demanded a certain flexibility. Which would be a mark against giving Stannis the role come to think of it.

Moving through the Dornish and even at one point daring to exchange civil greetings with Doran Martell (who had limped into the hall and now had his foot propped up on a stool), Robert at last reached the throne and seated himself without any further ceremony.

"My lords, my friends, my countrymen," he declared in a carrying voice. "I won't keep you in any further suspense as to why I've called you here. While the precendent only exists for a Grand Council to manage the succession, I believe that it can also serve to address matters of concern to all Seven Kingdoms." He paused. "Besides which, I have no concerns about my son or those after him in the succession."

Then what was this about? Olenna elected to hold her tongue, if only because she could see Mace puzzling over the same question.

"Winter is coming," Robert continued. "Not immediately, the Maesters tell me, but the seasons are inexorable. And almost without exception, a long summer is followed by a long and savage winter. We have now known almost five years of summer and there is no sign of autumn. While most of us lack his years, I am sure Lord Frey and those few of his generation here remember how the seven years summer sixty years ago was followed by more than five years of winter."

He paused. "It's hardly unique, there was a six year winter a century before. Even a strong and well prepared lord might see his people decimated by famine and plague under these circumstances. And even before the winter, we can expect problems. Long summers allow the Wildlings north of the Wall to build their strength. The last King-Beyond-the-Wall, Raymun Redbeard was in just such a time - and the Night's Watch, far stronger then than they are now, could do nothing to stop them."

Robert's fist slammed against the arm of the chair. "I will not see the Wall breached again."

There was a brief cheer from the Northern lords.

"And nor will I see Westeros ravaged by famine and plague. I have called you here in order to coordinate plans to make the most of the summer, to reinforce the Wall and to enter the next winter - whenever it comes - with every possible barn, larder and cellar stuffed with food to see us through it, no matter how long it proves to be!"


	18. Chapter 18

**Viserys VII**

The godswood of the Red Keep had become something of a refuge for Viserys. It was impossible to enter or even to look at the Crown - the Dragonpit! - without recalling that not only had Robert Baratheon carved out a powerful place for his new dynasty but that there was apparently no place in it for Ser Viserys Targaryen.

The Great Council was for lords. And Viserys, for all his royal background, had no more resources or alliances than the least hedge knight.

"Everything I have," he told the weirwood tree, "Is a gift of the man who has brought down my family."

The tree itself was an addition. Early in Robert's reign, it had been carefully uprooted from the North and shipped south to be replanted here. Save for that the Godswood was much as Viserys recalled in his childhood, unlike the Red Keep above him, which was increasingly a purely military fortress - headquarters of the King's Men and swarming with hundreds of Baratheon swornswords.

"Well," a voice declared. "You're right, my lady! There is a weirwood here. How did that grow since the last time I was here?"

Viserys hoped he'd kept his voice down enough that he hadn't been overheard.

"It didn't grow here," his sister explained. "King Robert brought it here."

"And here's your brother." Lord Mace Tyrell wasn't a small man, although he wasn't as large as Robert. "I'm pleased to meet you, Prince Viserys. Willas and Garlan speak well of you. Their brother is most envious of your exploits."

Viserys nodded, thinking back to the Iron Isles and evenings spent drinking with other squires and young knights. "Loras?"

"Aye, a bright lad. I think he'll do well. Like his brothers." Mace stroked his beard. "I was meaning to talk to you and your sister suggested you might be here."

"It's usually quiet here."

"Your house and mine have a history, your highness." The Reachlord put a fatherly hand on Viserys' shoulder. "There's no blood kinship, not like the Baratheons, the Martells or the Arryns - but we Tyrells owe much of our position to House Targaryen and we don't forget it."

"I'm aware that the Tyrell's army held out against the Usurper longer than any," answered Viserys. "And of course that your army was the only one to defeat him in battle." While led by Randyll Tarly, but this wasn't the time.

"Brother!" protested Daenerys.

"Of course, that was many years ago." Viserys moved deftly out from Mace's hand and took his sister's hand. "Daenerys hadn't even been born then."

"Indeed, and my daughter is only a year or so older."

Really, could the man be any more obvious? "I imagine that every dashing young knight will be making his way to Highgarden in a few years, vying for her favour."

"Those who can stand up to her older brothers, which is a select group, as I think you know."

"Willas and Garlan are very worthy knights. I'm sure Loras will be no less diligent. And getting reports from their grandmother, no doubt."

"I'm pleased that you think so highly of them." Mace beamed. "May I ask, since you are head of the Targaryens, have you given any thought to your sister's eventual marriage?"

A rush of anger flooded through Viserys and he could feel Daenerys stiffen. Hopefully his own face and hers would not betray them. "Some thought, yes, although as certain others might wish to exert their will on the matter I would have to give careful thought to not only whom but as to how it might be arranged."

"Well this is a grand time to consider renewing old ties," Mace hinted.

"Of course." Viserys gripped his sister's hand a little more firmly. "I shall have to give the matter serious thought, my lord Tyrell. It behooves us both to act when the time is right, which is not quite now. We are still quite young after all."

"Marriages have been made younger."

"Of course, but I would never equate you to Walder Frey and how he took advantage of Tytos Lannister." He pulled lightly on Daenerys' hand and drew her towards the ledge overlooking Blackwater Bay. "Would you like to watch the ships, dear sister?"

"I'd love to, Viserys." She let him pull her away from Mace. "You're not going to agree to that are you?" she asked anxiously once they were sufficently far away that no sense was likely to be overheard of her words.

"I was just being polite. Of course you might change your mind once you meet them. Willas and Garlan are quite dashing. And rich."

His sister thought about that. "I want to marry someone I can love, Viserys. It doesn't matter if he's rich, King Robert said he'd dower me with Dragonstone."

Viserys felt a red rage rising and caught himself on the parapet. No! No, don't take it out on her. It's his fault. It's all his fault!

He remembered a quiet, comfortable room with red tapestries. Robert Baratheon, crowned, offering him the lordship of Dragonstone... at the price of bending the knee and swearing public allegiance.

"Brother?"

"I feel unwell," he said sharply and turned away. "Pray tell... tell anyone who cares I have retired early."

Somewhere in King's Landing there was wine enough to make him forget this, or at least to dull the ache inside him.

He was losing his sister to the Baratheons and for the life of him he could find no sane road to change that.

* * *

  
**Stannis XII**

Aemma had bought and furnished the manse, on the slopes of Rhaenys Hill, in that corner formed by the Crown, the Iron Gate and the Arena. Stannis was pleased by the result - it was a refuge for them both from the court without the distance of his new keep at Byrnbridge.

Orys found it less appealing, missing the broad orchards and yards for him to play in. The boy was as rambunctious as Robert had been at that age and even the King's brother couldn't afford a home in King's Landing large enough for that energy.

Fortunately the king himself had the vast central hall of the Crown, not to mention the royal apartments in the Stag Tower and other open spaces, so Orys was visiting his cousins and Stannis could enjoy peace and quiet with his wife - and in this case a few guests.

A handful of servants moved food from the kitchens to a conveniently placed dining chamber fit for no more than a dozen. This evening, as with most evenings when Stannis dined here, there was ample elbow room around the table.

"The farming techniques sent to me a few years ago have returned healthy crops," the new Hand of the King admitted, accepting a refill of his goblet. "Lord Cerwyn is trying the same so I don't see that my other bannermen will object strongly to adopting the same. We know the value of full cellars in the North."

"What concerns me," Catelyn Stark added from where she sat next to her husband, "Is that southern lords will be unco-operative about any arrangement that favours the north at their expense."

Aemma glanced to Stannis for permission and he nodded. "We have our own lessons to learn," she answered. "Even in the Vale winters were months shorter than in the North. The difference is more extreme in the southern Easterlands and the Reach. We can use northern-style farming to wring extra harvests though, in a winter of five years or more."

Stannis nodded again. "You must have seen the difference, Lord Selmy."

"I've been breeding Northern and Dornish horses," the white-haired lord observed. "I don't see why the same shouldn't work for crops. Ashara and I -" He set down his glass and took his wife's hand fondly. "- have been talking to her brother about sending some of our sheep and cattle south to Starfall. He wants to breed hardier animals to last the winter. In return, if our own breeding stock doesn't make it through the winter, we can take our payment from his herds come the spring."

Cersei held out her goblet to the servant for more wine. "Benjen's taught me that bringing our lands through the winter is a matter of thinking ahead," she observed. "It's why we're building fishing ports on the east and west coasts of our lands."

"I noticed that." Her goodbrother glanced over at Benjen. "It's costing you a fair coin."

Benjen nodded. "It will be more than worth it, if we can feed our people. And Cersei has had an idea of how to raise more coin in the north."

"A long, cold winter." Cersei touched the luxuriant fur collar on her gown. "In the south, there will be call for warm furs. Everything I wear is showing off the furs our hunters can gather. This Grand Council gives me the perfect chance to show them off to the ladies of the south."

"So clever," Catelyn said admiringly. "Isn't that silver fox?"

"Indeed!"

Stannis rolled his eyes as Ashara joined the conversation about gowns and showing off the furs the other two northern ladies had brought with them.

Beside him, Aemma gave him a sympathetic smile before offering her own suggestions. Around the table, Ned, Benjen and Barristan all took refuge in their wine and waited patiently for the storm to pass. This lasted through the fish pie and Stannis was just carving a slice of pork for Aemma when Cersei asked a question.

"Prince Stannis, I hope you don't mind my asking, but with the iron foot the maester's made you, are you able to dance?"

"Dance?"

"Yes, my father's hosting a feast in three days. He brought musicians from Casterly Rock and there will be dancing."

"It's true," Benjen agreed. "Cersei has been teaching me the steps to Westerland dances."

"I've not tried to dance since this." Stannis gestured down to the boot covering the false leg he wore.

"Oh well, I'm sure that the way you scramble around ships with Ser Davos, that you can manage one dance," Aemma told him quietly. "As long as it isn't a galliard."

"We should have dancing when we throw a feast," Catelyn suggested. "And show the other lords northern dances."

"What a wonderful idea!" Cersei clapped her hands together. "Benjen's a fine dancer."

"Only with you." Stannis saw the youngest Stark brother take his wife's hand and kiss it.

"I was meaning to ask," Ashara said to Aemma. "Is it true that the king's oldest daughter will marry soon?"

"What? Cassana! But she's so young," protested Catelyn.

"No, Catelyn. I mean Mya."

The Hand's wife made a face. "Oh."

"She's a nice girl," Aemma said judiciously. "And she is betrothed, but it will be a few years before she marries. It's Ronnet Connington, so she'll be lady of Griffin's Roost some day."

"Are the Connington's back in favour?" asked Barristan. He was from the Stormlands originally, and familiar with the houses.

Stannis grunted. "Jon Connington's said to have drunk himself to death. Robert says he has no quarrel with the rest of the house."

"And Alysanne said that the two of them seem to like each other." Aemma smeared mustard on her pork. "That's a good sign for their future together."

* * *

  
**Barristan V**

"If the Night's Watch can't protect the Wall then why should we support them?" asked Lord Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall.

Sitting far away from his grand-nephew, Lord Barristan Selmy wondered if the boy's mother was an idiot. Aristan's paternal grandmother had seemed sane enough - she'd been betrothed to Barristan before he joined the Kingsguard. "Lord Selmy, I would say that if the Night's Watch can't protect the Wall alone then supporting them is very much in our interests. I would rather the Wildlings weren't attempting to storm my keep."

"The North can defend itself."

"And if the Easterlands is invaded would you like the North to rally to the banners or to sit back and declare it to be your problem?" asked Jon Arryn from the head of the Vale lords. "We have our own problems with the Mountain Clans in the Vale. Were they mustering entire armies I would hope that our noble King would march in our support."

A tacit show of support for the King's stated policy while at the same time a reminder that all the Kingdoms had existing obligations that couldn't be neglected. It wouldn't be wise to discount Jon Arryn, simply because he was no longer Hand of the King.

The current Hand gestured for silence. "While the Night's Watch was once thirty thousand strong, his grace agrees that an extended muster of that strength would not be necessary. Currently the Wall is only manned by two thousand men, nearly a third of whom are employed behind the Wall. Since posting four men for every mile of the Wall wouldn't be effective, they're concentrated in only three of the twenty castles along the Wall."

"The Night's Watch is only two thousand strong?" asked Lord Hightower in surprise.

"Slightly less than half of that. The remainder are made up of King's Men and small numbers of men from Queenscrown who help maintain the ports at either end of the Wall." Benjen Stark folded his arms. "The Lord Commander and the First Ranger advise me that the Wildlings settlements they know of can field at least forty thosand fighting men."

And women, Barristan added mentally, having discussed this with the Night's Watch brother attending the Council. Yoren probably wasn't the ideal choice for this matter but having spent more than a quarter of a century traversing Westeros to find recruits, he at least had a grasp of the various Lords. Still, mentioning that wildling women fought alongside their men probably wasn't going to help to represent them as a threat.

"You mentioned the castles." Tywin Lannister projected his voice easily to carry to all the lords gathered around the throne - which sat vacant at the moment, Prince Stark standing easily to one side while the King was tending to the affairs of the Small Council. "If seventeen castles are unmanned, the Wall has barely a sentry-watch. If each of the Seven Kingdoms undertook to restore two of the castles and a small garrison, then at least there would be no excuse for the Wildlings to cross unobserved."

"One has to give the Prince credit," Willem Dustin murmured from beside Barristan. "With his grandchild's lands most at threat, Tywin Lannister is forced to throw his support behind this."

"I'm not sure that was Prince Eddard's thinking, but it has worked out well for him."

"Restoring castles may not mean so much to a House as famously wealthy as the Lannisters, but most of us would prefer not to see our taxes raised." Which was a rich statement coming from Walder Frey's whose house had been growing rich on bridge tolls since before the Doom of Valyria. "Harrenhall is a lesson in how to waste money on useless castles - most of us rode past it on the way here."

"Don't worry, Walder. You can pay your tax in manpower." Hoster Tully waved off the concern. "Fifty or so of your sons and grandsons would be a good start on garrisoning one of the castles. If they take to it they can even join the Night's Watch and be out of everyone's way."

"Lord Stark of Queenscrown has agreed that timber and stone provided from his lands for the restoration of the castles won't be taxes," Ned Stark advised. "Material from the Gift would not be taxed in any case."

Barristan cleared his throat. "How many people will be needed to man the castles? And how will food be obtained for them?"

"There's something like five hundred men for each castle at the moment," Lord Hightower said cautiously. "If that holds true."

"Yes, we're expecting this will require around a thousand men from each of the kingdoms," agreed the Hand. "The king is going to form a new company of King's Men to further support restoring and replacing siege weapons along the top of the Wall."

"Which would mean almost ten thousand men on the Wall."

"Lady Tyrell will be shocked her son can count that high."

Barristan gave Willem a warning look. Even with Lord Tarly serving as Warden, Mace Tyrell could cause considerable problems if he put his mind to it. Just dragging his feet, since a good fraction of the Reach's contribution would come from the Tyrell's lands, could slow progress.

"Food will be more of a challenge. There aren't enough small folk on the Gift to feed ten thousand men for any length of time so this will require shipments. There were gardens and animal pens, but many of them haven't been used for centuries."

"Why don't we just establish new knightly houses for each castle," grumbled Lord Yronwood. "It would be cheaper."

"That would need to be negotiated with the Lord Commander," said Prince Stark drily. "The king has no overall objection if you can come to an agreement."

"Which castles would you see as being restored?" asked Jon Arryn, looking towards Lord Tywin.

"That would depend which three castles the Night's Watch feel they can do without best," the Westerland Lord Paramount replied smoothly. "Although for ease, probably each kingdom should take responsibility for adjacent castles."

* * *

  
**Tywin XIII**

It was a nearly perfect summer's day. The sky was clear with just a hint of cloud. Tywin was sitting in the comfortable shade with Kevan, watching the royal tournament unfold from House Lannister's private box.

The only fly in the ornament was that the seat on the other side of Tywin wasn't occupied by Jaime. In complete disregard of the fact he was heir and needed to prepare to one day rule from Casterly Rock, Twyin's elder son was down in the centre of the arena, showing off his skills against young Ser Willas Tyrell.

It wasn't that he objected to seeing a Tyrell getting thrashed, nor Jaime demonstrating his superiority. But Jaime was no longer a boy and there were other and more important responsibilities to attend to. Besides, the principal purpose of this tourney was to let knights show off their skills in hope of joining the Royal Guards. Which was certainly rewarded open-handedly - Jorah Mormont, for one example, had been granted three galleys to reinforce the Mormont's small fleet in the west.

Realising that only the dregs were left in his goblet, Tywin held it out and a southern-looking page accepted it, replacing it with a fresh goblet of Arbor gold.

"Jaime could have finished this long ago," Kevan noted.

"He's showing off." Tywin sipped from the new goblet. It had even been chilled to perfection. "He isn't as soft as Tytos, but he will need good counsel when I am gone."

"You're not that old." His brother shook his head. "And Tyrion has a good head on his shoulders."

"The problem with that statement, Kevan, is that both head and shoulders aren't here with Jaime. The question is when or if Gerion and the boy will return from Essos."

"And whether they return with Brightroar."

"After more than three hundred years, I would be very surprised." He drank more wine. "I hope your sons have wiser heads on their shoulders."

"They're too young to be sure."

"We were young too."

Kevan shook his head. "Speaking of the young, Tygett's boy is old enough to consider fostering."

"I've mentioned Tyrek to Prince Arryn. His foster-sons have done well for themselves and it would give Tyrek prospects to have young Robert and Rennart look to him as a foster-brother."

Jaime returned to his horse and rode off the arena floor below, while Willas Tyrell had to be carried off. Men moved out to quickly rake the sand before the next joust.

"That won't please Mace Tyrell."

"Mace Tyrell has displeased the King - repeatedly. I'm more concerned about the grandmother. She has Robert's ear." Tywin grimaced. "Be so good as to visit Ser Willas and express my wishes for his quick recovery."

"You won't go yourself?"

"No." Tywin shifted in his chair. "Tell Jaime that he's to take my chair at tonight's feast."

"Where will you sit?"

"I have another engagement." He rose from his chair and paused as his guts roiled. "Let the lords get used to Jaime as their prince. I will dine with Cersei and her husband. Her quarrel with her brothers does nothing for our House."

There was a privy between his box and the stairs, he remembered. As he got older he found he needed to visit it more often than in his youth. Age consumes us all, he thought. One day I'll be with Joanna again. But before then I must secure my House... and for better or worse that rests on our children.

Jaime, the sword. Cersei, the ruler. Tyrion... His face twisted. "The imp." He murmured to himself as he opened the door to the privy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Varys VI**

"What a pleasure to meet you gentlemen," Varys effused, shaking hands with both Lannisters. "Pentos is my home, but my years in King's Landing make Westeros a close second in my heart."

Gerion followed the shake of hands with a manly thump to Varys' shoulder that would have staggers a less solidly built man. His nephew, famously barely half the height but no less weatherbeaten in his features, merely poured out a fresh goblet of wine for him. "Well your own name is hardly unknown, Master Varys. I daresay that after the prince - long may he reign - that you are the best known man in Pentos."

"Oh really." He waved his hand dismissively. "I spread the news, but I am hardly news myself. No family dramas - no family at all. I barely ever leave Pentos."

"But your words are read not only in Pentos and her daughter cities, but also far away." Tyrion sipped on his own goblet.

"Aye," agreed Ser Gerion. "Scarcely had we made port at Volantis but we were asked most urgently if we had copies of your Broadsheet. For all the imitators, I daresay none is as respected as those pages with the name Varys at the bottom."

"Why that's very gratifying, all the more so from such legendary figures as the first men to set foot in Valyria in centuries."

"The first men to set foot there and return," corrected the captain of the Silence. "Important distinction. As it happens, I have some literary ambitions of my own. I don't suppose you can recommend a printer in Pentos."

"As I have a small sideline in books myself," admitted Varys. "These new printing presses are spreading the written word more than every priestly school on two continents. May I venture to suspect that you have written an account of your voyage?"

"Precisely so. And while I rather imagine that I can have it printed in Westeros, it seems to me there would be even more interest here in Essos about the exploration of Old Valyria."

"Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement." Varys pursed his lips. "Of course, unless you wish to remain in Pentos for quite some time... well, the first printing would be a matter of only a few weeks but selling the books..." Advertised in his broadsheet perhaps - perhaps print a sample in next week's broadsheet, ending on some suitably dramatic moment to lure his readers to buy the book to learn the results...

"In return for a fair share of the profits." The younger Lannister's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I know how this game is played, Master Varys."

"Why of course." He pressed one hand to his chest. "After all, you might write further books, and should you wish them sold here..."

"My nephew the copper-counter," said Gerion with a chuckle.

"And you weren't counting every coin when we divided our find with Volantis."

Varys arched his eyebrows artfully. "Most generous of you, my lords Lannister. Or..."

"It was the agreement our ancestor King Tommen reached with them, before his fleet vanished in those waters," Gerion said a little stiffly. "Lannisters pay their debts."

"Among the most admirable of traits, I agree." Verys bobbed his head. "Shall we say one third of the profits once printing costs are covered, Lord Tyrion? I can have it sent across the Narrow Sea for you."

"Shall we say one half, and you can deposit it with the Tower Bank." The dwarf smiled crookedly. "I left a modest investment there on my first visit - in case I got marooned here and needed to pay for passage home. I don't think they'll mind my adding to it."

He made a gesture of surrender. "As you would have it, Lord Tyrion. If you wish to meet with me on the morrow, we can discuss the details with my printers." While the King's rigidity on the matter of bond service hadn't endeared him to many Pentoshi, the city's bank would hardly refuse to do business with one of the great Houses of the other continent - particularly the fabulously wealthy Lannisters. "I look forward to reading your deeds."

"In the meantime." Gerion paused. "Oh, your goblet is near empty. Let me fill that for you."

"My thanks." It was a rich, Volantine wine. Varys sipped cautiously and resolved not to finish this cup until he was ready to leave, lest he be forced by politeness to accept more and more. He didn't find that alcohol swayed him as much as some men, but nor was he the sort of hardened drinker that a sailor or a Westerosi lord might be - and these men were both!

"Perhaps you have news of our homeland that we might not have heard yet." Gerion smiled charmingly. "We would hope no misfortune lies on the kingdoms but -"

Varys held up his hands. "But of course. I should have thought that you might not have heard - pray ask no further." He set the goblet down and folded his arms before him. "I ask your pardon for not realising you might not have heard this yet - Lord Tywin Lannister is said to be in ill-health."

"Father," murmured Tyrion.

His uncle leant forwards. "An injury?"

"If my correspondents in the capital are correct, a serious case of flux."

Tyrion barked a short laugh. "That would figure."

"How soon can we leave?"

The dwarf shrugged. "We need supplies and the wind's out of the west. I'd thought to wait until there was a better wind. Father will have the best maesters in the kingdom around him, don't worry so much."

"I have an ill feeling about this."

Tyrion nodded. "Well, your feelings have worked out before. The day after tomorrow then. The crew need at least a little time ashore and I'm not venturing out of sight of land without replenishing our water barrels."

"Are you sure this isn't so you can get your book printed?"

"Uncle, I'd hope you'd realise by now that putting to sea is a bit more complex than saddling a horse."

* * *

  
**Ned XIII**

"Fishing rights?" asked Lord Tully. Ned's goodfather seemed bemused rather than derisive.

Davos Seaworth cleared his throat. Ten years of wearing fine tunics and a title made them feel no less a poor fit for a Fleabottom-born smuggler. "Fishing is more like hunting than farming, my lord. Fish cannot always be found in the same place, so fishermen range across the sea looking for a place to cast their nets."

Lord Manderly rose ponderously to his feet. "White Harbour has a considerably fishing fleet," he reminded the lords. "And in winter it's not unusual for fishermen - knowing their families depend on their hauls - to fear that too many boats after the same fish may mean that some will be left to go short. It's a rare month when I don't have to deal with clashes between boats. Frame that in not rival boats from the same city but entire fishing fleets that may not even be from the same kingdoms..."

"And then there are the Free Cities." Davos shook his head. "While winters in Essos aren't quite as severe as here, the Bravosi do have an extensive fishing fleet."

"I don't think we want to fight a naval war in the winter against Braavos. Or the other Free Cities, for that matter." King Robert leant back in the throne. "An emissary to the Sealord may be in order."

Davos bowed towards the King. "As the North is likely to face food shortages sooner than the rest of Westeros, squadrons of the Royal Navy have begun charting the best fishing grounds to the east and west, starting with the Bay of Ice and the Bay of Seals. Since the Wildlings have no known nautical traditions, there should be no real conflict in fishing the north-western Shivering Sea or along the Frozen Shore."

"I suppose that that makes sense." Hoster Tully scratched his chin. "When you send an emissary, your grace, may my son Edmure and a small party accompany them? My house has business with the Iron Bank."

"Oh?"

Robert's masked surprise was understandable, Ned thought. Relations between Riverrun and King's Landing had been lukewarm since Hoster resigned as Master of Coins. Even the fact that Ser Brynden Tully now led the Royal Guards didn't help since Hoster would have much rather his brother wed on completing seven years of service. Instead the Blackfish had dominated the Royal Tourney three years ago and been rewarded by a second term of service.

"I'm looking for a loan from the Iron Bank and some Braavosi master builders to help me with some bridges." Ned noted that Hoster's smile was more than a little sly. "It seems to me that connecting the River Road to the King's Road through Fairmarket would significantly ease sending food north from the western Riverlands."

"You can't do that!" came an enraged bellow from Walder Frey.

His protest was met with shouts of derision from lords with less than flattering views of the lord of the Twins.

"Order!" demanded Ned. "I will have order!"

That didn't silence everyone until Robert rose to his feet and lifted his hammer. "SHUT! UP!" The bellow cut across the entire space - more than one lord near the dais clapped hands to ears.

Cold blue Baratheon eyes swept the room. "You may have your say in turn," the King said after a cool silence. "But when my good right hand calls for order then there will be order."

No one dared challenge that command and he looked deliberately around the lords again before sitting.

Ned watched the lords who had risen to shout take their seats again. "Lord Frey, I believe you were speaking?"

"My House, the Freys, bridged the Green Fork. What need is there for another bridge?"

"The Twins are inconveniently far to the north and west for Riverrun," replied Hoster confidently. "You'll still sit astride the best trade route from the Vale to Seagard, but a middle road between Darry and the Twins would be useful too."

"It took years to build our bridge, do you think that you can build one before winter comes - especially where the Green Fork is wider!" Lord Frey was clearly floundering for reasons that didn't amount to 'because all my weath and power rests on having the only bridge'.

"Lord Frey, your ancestors were working with the resources of a knightly house and doing so in a time when the area was warred over by three different kingdoms." Ned could see that Hoster was enjoying this. "We're at peace and with a loan from the Iron Bank I expect to have a wooden bridge up in two years and stone in three more. Admittedly the latter would be after winter."

Robert made a face as if he wanted to speak but was biting back the words.

Ned leant down. "Your grace."

"Three to one it takes longer than that," the king said under his breath. More loudly: "I appreciate your position, Lord Frey, but the good of the realm takes precedence here. I will consider funding an improvement of the roads between Seagard and the Kingsroad via the Twins, which may offset any lost traffic through your lands."

* * *

  
**Stannis XII**

The short dagger was black glass, the hilt wrapped in leather. Stannis gripped it and mimed a thrust, then a cut. The balance was adequate, he supposed.

"I've been reading the tales of the heroes who once manned the Wall," Robert explained, holding a second dagger. "Several of them speak of weapons made of dragonglass. These were made on Dragonstone."

"Steel would be better."

"As weapons, yes. But as a tradition?" The king grinned broadly. "Every man who serves on the wall will receive a dagger of dragonglass, linking them back to the heroes of old."

"That'll require more than nine thousand of these. How long will it take to make so many?"

"About two years, so they should have enough done in six months or so."

Stannis glared at his brother. "You started planning this a while ago then."

"I wasn't entirely sure it would come together like this, but yes. Ultimately the entire situation on the Wall wasn't acceptable so I had to do something."

"Were you ever planning to tell anyone about this?"

"I just did tell you," Robert said, the smile slipping of his face. "What did you think I was doing with the taxes from Dragonstone?"

Making my life difficult. The king taking personal charge of those taxes instead of having them paid into the royal purse was something of a hole in the Master of Coin's paperwork for the whole time Stannis had held the office. "I thought it was personal expenses - maintaining a mistress or something."

"What!?" Robert's face went red.

"It's not as if you don't have a reputation for..."

"Stannis." There was considerable anger in Robert's voice. "Would you keep a mistress? Would you do that to Aemma?"

"Of course not!"

His brother's eyes were blazing. "I was a fool as a boy. I grew up. Are we clear?"

For a moment, Stannis felt as if he was a child again, about to get strapped by their father. "Yes," he ground out.

Grudgingly Robert leant back. "Actually," he said in tones of forced calm, "Dragonstone has been paying its taxes in dragonglass for a while now. As I said, I knew I was going to do something along those lines. We also have barrels full of obsidian arrowheads, just in case things moved fast enough that I didn't have the daggers ready in time. Probably for the best I did though - arrowheads aren't quite as impressive."

"I agree."

Both brothers looked up sharply as there was a knock on the door of the chamber. There was no regular business this morning which meant this probably wasn't good news.

"Enter!" called Robert.

The door opened to reveal Ser Richard Horpe, one of the newest of the Royal Guards. "Your grace, Prince Stannis." He dipped his head. "Lord Lannister has passed away. There's a terrible row going on in the Lion Tower."

"By the gods." Robert rose so sharply that his chair fell over backwards and made for the door. Stannis followed and they descended the stairs to the upper gallery in haste, joined by Ser Mandon Moore - the other member of the Royal Guards assigned to the King today.

"Make way for the King," demanded Moore, pushing aside servants and the various lords on the gallery, which circled the entire great inner chamber of the Crown, looking out on the floor far below. It was broad enough for two horses to ride astride, so fortunately there was plenty of room for those Moore shoved to step aside.

The Lion's Tower was slightly north of true west, forcing the four of them to circle almost the full length of the Crown. It was still faster than going down to the floor and climbing up the stairs though. Stannis could hear indistinct shouting well before they reached the entrance to the tower.

"It is poison, I tell you," snapped Pycelle at Colemon. "And we both know who is to blame. Get out of my way, you fool. I will go right to the King and then we will see who is Grand Maester!"

"You won't have to go far, but there's a time and a place." Robert brushed both Maesters aside and went further inside the tower, Royal Guards accompanying him.

Stannis stopped and looked at the servants, then shook his head. The accusation made had been too loud and too public. Whether it was true or not, the rumour would spread. "Grand Maester," he nodded to Colemon and then after a deliberate pause. "Maester Pycelle."

"Prince Stannis," Colemon greeted him. "A sad occurrance."

"Sad, this is assassination."

"I heard you, Pycelle." He gestured sharply. "Lord Tywin has passed away?" It was always worth checking.

Colemon drew himself up. "He has."

"I see. And Maester Pycelle believes poison was the cause?"

"Of course, it's the cause."

"Maester." Stannis glared at the white-bearded Pycelle. "I am addressing the Grand Maester."

The man glared poisonously at Colemon who ignored him.

"He does." Somewhat reluctantly the Grand Maester added: "Which I cannot confirm at this point."

"I see." Stannis lowered his head thoughtfully and then snapped his fingers at the nearest page. "You. Fetch Sandor Clegane. He'll be in the Master of Laws offices."

"Why do you want the Hound?" asked Pycelle.

Stannis glared. "You say someone poisoned Lord Tywin? Don't you want to know who did it? Clegane's like a bloodhound. If anyone can work out who it was, it's him."

"Isn't it obvious, it must be the Red Viper of Dorne."

"You can't know that!" protested Colemon.

Robert returned to the room, one arm around Jaime Lannister's shoulder. "What's all this shouting?" he said. "Don't you know there's a dead lord in the bedchamber up there? Show some respect."

"I should write to Uncle Kevan," Jaime muttered. "And I suppose Cersei must be told."

"It's as plain as day this is a Dornish plot," Pycelle snapped. "Don't try to hide it."

The Lannister's head snapped up sharply.

"It's too early to say," Stannis corrected the old Maester. "We don't know for sure yet he was even poisoned." He held up his hand. "But we will find out. I'm calling in Clegane."

That didn't stop the young lion's head from fixing due south towards the Tower of the Sun.

Robert didn't let go of Lannister's shoulder. "Not today, Prince Jaime. Let Clegane work. Whether he did it or not, you just lost your father. You're in no state to fight Oberyn Martell."

After a moment, Jaime relaxed a hair. "And if he did?"

"Your father supported me when I was new to my own throne. Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."

* * *

  
**Olenna VII**

"If we can speak of something other than the Lannisters and the Martells being at each other's throats..."

"Please do," Robert said with a sigh. The accusations and denials had derailed practically the entire Great Council. The City Watch had broken up four skirmishes inside the city walls already.

Olenna dropped a curtsey. "I must apologise for my son."

"For anything specific? Or for his being Mace?"

"Well I'm not taking any responsibility for his trying to arrange a marriage for one of my grandsons to Daenerys."

Robert nodded. "She is a beautiful and well dowered girl of a suitable age to begin discussing her marriage prospects. And your grandsons are admirable in their ways."

"Well they are your brother's friends."

"Yes..." The king scratched his chin. "I suppose I didn't set the best example for Renly at that age."

She had to mask a flinch at that cunningly backhanded remark.

"Lady Olenna, they all have a few years to grow up. I don't particularly favour a Tyrell match for my cousin but I'm not going to actively deny it as an option either. Who knows what may happen in that time? At least it's distracting the Reach from exacerbating our other problems."

There was a knock on the door. "Prince Tyrion and Ser Gerion Lannister, your grace."

Robert looked around the chamber. "Very well," he confirmed, raising his voice. "Bid them enter."

The door to the Small Council chamber was flung open and Olenna heard strange sounds - almost like heavy breathing, but echoing and reverberating.

Two men entered the chamber. One, by height, could only be Tyrion Lannister but that deduction took her a moment to process, so bizarre was their appearance. They both wore waxed leather coats, gloves and boots. Their heads were entirely encased in helmets and bird-beaked face masks with thick glass lens for eyes.

Prince Stark was hardly the only man at the table who reached for a weapon as the duo marched in and then dropped to one knee.

Only the King seemed unalarmed. His eyes were wide but a smile played upon his face. The first, Olenna thought, since Tywin's death. He held out his hand, palm up, and then raised it slightly. "Rise, Prince Tyrion and Ser Gerion."

The two obeyed and unbuckled their helms and masks, revealing indeed Prince Tyrion Lannister and his uncle, Ser Gerion.

"Most impressive."

"What in the world was that in aid of?" asked Ned Stark. "How can you even breathe in that get-up?"

"It takes some practise," Tyrion admitted, wiping sweaty hair back from his face.

"Why would you wear such things?"

The Crowslayer bowed to Lady Olenna. "As to that, you may blame his grace."

Robert raised one coal-black eyebrow.

"But I won't," Tyrion added hastily.

"When I discussed our expedition with his grace, at the end of my service in the Royal Guard, he shared an interesting idea about the Doom of Valyria and why expeditions there have failed ever since."

"And that would be?" asked Stannis.

His brother shrugged his shoulders. "Valyria was surrounded by fire-mountains and it's said that they still blaze beneath the waves."

"Indeed!" Tyrion pulled off his gauntlets and threw them on the table. "Not to mention that the seas are said to smoke and boil... exactly as they would if something as hot as a fire mountain was below the surface. Fire mountains are little known here in Westeros, but accounts I've read show that in addition to fire and ice, they can also blast out clouds of noxious poisons - not so unlike mine gas."

"Mine gas?"

"Something we Lannisters know much of. If such a gas was still being vented and bubbling out the sea then it's no surprise that no one returns: likely they all choke to death, poisoned without even knowing it."

"And these suits protect you?" Stannis sounded understandably sceptical.

"Well the caged mice we took died, while we did not. What does that tell you?"

"Never mind that!" demanded Stafford Lannister. "What about Brightroar? Did you find it?"

Gerion and Tyrion exchanged looks.

"We did not," admitted the elder. "But we found... quite enough to be worth returning. Nephew?"

"Are you sure?"

"This is your moment, I wouldn't deny you."

Tyrion whistled shrilly and two men in sailor's slops carried a long, low and clearly weighty chest between them and placed it before the table. Producing a key from around his neck, the dwarf unlocked it. "Something for the King, something for the Queen... something for father!" He paused. "Well. For Jaime now."

"Well?"

Tyrion lifted a scabbarded greatsword from the chest and laid it on the table, hilt first. Gripping the scabbard he pushed against the guard and the weapon slid easily out, sliding across the table until its pommel rested directly before Prince Stark.

Olenna stared at the blade and its dark and smokey metal. "Valyrian steel."

"A new Brightroar," murmured Stafford, reverently.

"Ned, is that..." The King's voice was grave.

The Prince drew his own sword and laid it alongside Tyrion's prize. The likeness was obvious even to someone with little knowledge of blades. Indeed, until she had looked carefully at the runes near the hilt, Olenna thought they might be identical. One was the same, but the second was different.

"Sister blades," Ned concluded reverently.

"Aye." Tyrion touched the runes on both swords. "Unless I'm mistaken they share the maker's mark here. Only the names are different. Which is why this isn't a new Brightroar, cousin Stafford. The sword has a name already."

"And what is it?"

Gerion nodded respectfully to the Prince of the North. "The blade is named Fire."


	20. Chapter 20

**Jon XIII**

Ned was overseeing this gathering, Robert having excused himself to meet with Lord Bolton. Since his temper probably wouldn't help with some of the conversations, it was probably the right decision, Jon thought. Not to mention that the increasing difficulties keeping the Dornish and the Westerlanders from starting a bloodbath really needed the attention.

It wasn't as if Tywin Lannister had been much beloved, but under his lead the Westerlands had risen in prominence and the lords were uncertain if his heir would manage to maintain that.

Not to mention that a Lord Paramount being murdered in King's Landing had appalling precedents and made Robert look weak for being unable to protect someone who was technically his guest.

"So glass bottles and jars are going to be increasingly important," Ned summarised Colemon's somewhat lengthy explanation of possible storage methods and ways to extend the storage of food. "Not to mention that glass gardens will require a considerable amount of glass as well."

"Perhaps the King should abolish all taxes on glassmakers then," suggested Oberyn snidely.

"No one wants your suggestions, Martell," snarled Lord Marbrand.

"This is a Great Council. All lords have a voice here," the Red Viper replied coolly.

Jon looked around and saw men ready to rise and take sides. "Prince Oberyn isn't the only one to have considered the idea. I know that I receive a fair amount of coin from customs duties on importing glass from Myr. While we have our own glassmakers, I can't expect my own lords to pay for extensive glass gardens at the current prices."

Ned nodded. "I doubt Myr would be willing to export as much glass as we may need, so we'll need more glassmakers."

"Abolishing import duties and internal tolls on glass -" Jon could see Walder Frey's face purpling. "as well as rendering glassmakers tax free, at least until spring, would be a start. We may need to invest coin and other inducements for glassmakers to take on more apprentices but in my view that would be a matter for individual lords to decide."

Jon thought he could distantly remember when he'd thought being a great lord or king meant dealing with grand affairs of states. Now he was arguing before a great council over a matter of whether or not glassmakers should be taxed. That, added to the availability of King's Landing was probably why so few of the younger lords had attended meetings that weren't going to be discussing the Wall.

Tywin Lannister's death had changed that - no, that wasn't true. The accusation that the Dornish had poisoned him had changed that. With the possibility of words being crossed - of swords being crossed - few if any lords would excuse themselves from attendance. A handful of younger sons for the Reach had been sent home though. If Dorne and the Westerlands came to blows, their lands and families would be caught between the two kingdoms.

Frey frowned and then smirked. "Glass is made of sand, why shouldn't the Dornish pay their due for all the wealth we shall have to pay for the sands of their kingdom?"

"There's no shortage of sand anywhere in the kingdoms," Stannis Baratheon corrected him from where he sat among the Easterland lords, his younger brother sat sulkily next to him. "Anywhere that has a shoreline has enough sand to supply our needs. Put some of your hoarded silver to attracting glassmakers and you're perfectly placed to ship the results east down the Green Fork or west out of Seagard."

The old lord sneered back. "I'll take that under advisement, Prince of Byrnbridge. Assuming it's agreed that I don't pay taxes to Riverrun on my efforts, that is?"

"Would anyone else wish to speak on the matter of abolishing taxes, tolls and other duties on glass until the end of winter?" asked Ned.

Jon looked around at the men standing and claiming they wished to speak. None of them were major lords, so it was unlikely that the following debate would be anything but bannermen seeking to score points with their Princes and Lords Paramounts. Robert would have said it was time wasted, but it kept the lords happy and that was what mattered. Just as long as none of them brought up the alleged poisioning again...

"I must question the impact on this on the realm's treasury." Lord Swann pointedly glanced over at where Lord Kevan and his nephew Tyrion were representing Jaime Lannister. The Prince of the Rock was 'in mourning', which he appeared to handle by training vigorously with his newly acquired sword. Then again, there were less sensible ways to vent grief than upon training polls and sparring partners, in Jon's opinion. "Now that Lord Lannister is no longer with us, will the King be retaining the current Master of Coin?"

In other words, would the Lannisters remain a significant voice at court?

"Neither I nor King Robert have any qualms about the current Master of Coins," replied Ned evenly.

* * *

  
**Viserys VIII**

Viserys leant against the wall inside the Stag Tower for support. He’d drunk less than some of the others tonight but he still felt a touch unsteady. Well away from the windows, in a shady nook, was a keg of clean boiled water and a bowl of fruit. Moving carefully, he half-filled a goblet with water, then took an orange, cut it in two and squeezed the juice from one half into the goblet.

There was a shuffle from behind him. Viserys lifted the other half, held it over the goblet and then whipped his head around. A small boy in a night-shirt failed to duck back around the doorway in time to avoid being seen.

Slumping back into his chair, Viserys addressed the now empty doorway. “What are you doing out of bed, Eddard?”

Unruly black hair and sparkling blue eyes peeked around the corner. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I asked first.”

The boy entered the room and took an orange of his own, digging his fingers into it and peeling back the skin. “I want to see the ponies. Papa said I might have one if I was good.”

“I don’t think sneaking around the tower at this hour, much less going to the stables, would count as being good.”

Eddard shrugged evasively as Viserys used a spoon to mix the fruit juice and water. “What about you, why are you up early?”

“I’m not up early, I’m up late.”

“But it’s morning.”

Viserys yawned. “I noticed.” He drank from the goblet. It was Robert’s recommendation to cure a hangover: watered juice before you slept. It wasn’t entirely effective, but from experience of not trying it, Viserys would grudgingly admit it was a step in the right direction.

“You jingled.”

“What?”

“When you leant back, you jingled.”

“Ah.” He dug into his clothes and pulled out a pair of coins. Then some more. To the giggling of his cousin he even tipped out his boots – into his hand rather than onto the table or the floor – stacking coin after coin before him. Some was silver but most was gold. Gold dragons and titans, nearly a hundred of them.

“Why didn’t you have them all in your belt pouch?” asked Eddard, resting his chin on the table, what was left of his orange forgotten.

“Ser Brynden’s advice for playing at dice.” He smirked. “If your mother asks, say Renly told you this – not me.”

“What did Ser Blackfish tell you?”

Viserys put down his goblet, took one coin and tossed it idly in his hand. “Never wager every coin on you, much less anything you don’t have on hand. Set a coin aside in a boot or pocket every now and then if you win a round – no one blames a man with an empty belt pouch for leaving the table but no one likes you if you walk away with a fat purse.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“I don’t see how. It’s not like I’m fiddling the dice.” He eyed the stack. “I don’t think I’ve won this much before.”

“What are you going to get with it?”

“I’m.... not sure.”

A new sword? But his own, which had been Rhaegar’s, was perfectly serviceable.

After Mace Tyrell’s offer of a wedding match for Daenerys, Viserys had looked at everything in his room. Despite what he’d thought, very little was from the Usurper originally. The Red Keep was hardly short of clothes in Targaryen colours, so most of his clothes were – if a little worn – garments that had been stored away once his father or brother didn’t need them. Various items he’d bought with coin from the stipend Robert had granted him after he was knighted – the same allowance given to a swornsword. But he’d more than earned that, he reckoned, in the Ironborn Rebellion and as part of Robert’s escort on rides down the King’s Road to Storm’s End or up the Roseroad to Byrnbridge.

“How about a horse! A big grey, to match your hair!” Eddard reached up to tug on Viserys silvery locks.

He let the boy play a while and then swatted his hand away firmly. “A horse, eh? And where would I ride that horse?”

The idea wasn’t unappealing – a horse was something he didn’t have of his own. Always his steeds were from the royal stables – but they were Baratheon stables now and there had never been any suggestion that they were more than a loan. Still, he’d need to stable it and feed it...

“To Winterfell or Casterly Rock,” the boy told him, “And Sunspear or Braavos or Oldtown with the Citadel and the Hightower.”

Viserys chuckled and ruffled Eddard’s hair. For all of who his father was, it was impossible to dislike Eddard for himself. “I don’t think I could ride a horse to Braavos.”

“If I had a pony I could ride anywhere.”

Anywhere? “Well for now, how about you ride back to bed. Your mother won’t be pleased if you’re out of the tower until the sun’s a bit higher in the sky.”

Eddard sighed, clearly heavily put upon and stomped out of the room. Viserys picked up the discarded orange and squeezed what was left into his goblet, waiting until the loud footsteps were replaced by softer ones going in the other direction. “I said go back to bed, Eddard!”

There was a squeak and then running feet.

Anywhere.

Viserys scraped every bit of coin on the table into his belt pouch. Hmm. Too obvious, he’d need a money belt or similar. And to pack some of his plainer clothes – red-trimmed black wasn’t that uncommon but wearing three-headed dragons everywhere would be obvious.

And then?

Well, anywhere was as good a destination as any right now. Anywhere that wasn’t here, watching the Usurper and playing the role of hostage-become-trophy. Daenerys could play that role if she chose it – Robert wasn’t inclined to cause her any injury, that was clear. The man was as sweet with her as he was with his own daughters.

Anywhere, away and... who knew. Maybe he’d find Blackfyre, which ought to be somewhere in Essos. Or a Dragon Egg. Or just go to Volantis and make his name there where a proven claim of Valyrian blood counted for something.

Viserys drained what was left of his cup.

It was time for the dragon to spread its wings.

* * *

  
**Olenna VIII**

"The queen isn't wearing her newest jewels," Lord Bolton noted.

"It would be remarkably careless of her," Olenna reminded him sharply. "Valyrian jewels gifted to her by Lannisters would make it appear she was in their camp."

"Ah yes, that would be unfortunate."

"As unfortunate as letting young Viserys leave the city?" The City Watch on the streets were reinforced with the King's Men, not with their colleagues from the docks. The only remaining male Targaryen could hardly have boarded a ship without being noticed - he wasn't exactly a subtle young man.

"The timing is suspicious," the man admitted. "However, the King's orders were very firm. As long as he didn't take his sister with him, the City Watch weren't to stop Ser Viserys from leaving the city just to report where he went to."

"Which was?"

"Tyrosh. My men suggest it was less by intent than a matter of that being the destination of the next ship to leave the port."

"Tyrosh." She shook her head. "I really don't understand the King's thinking. Viserys has been kept secure under crown protection for ten years. And now, when he's of age to be a credible threat, he's allowed to leave?"

"One has to wonder," Bolton said in a non-committal tone.

Their conversation was cut short as Robert strode to the throne and seated himself. Ser Mandon Moore pounded twice upon the floor with the butt of a halberd. "Call silence," the man bellowed.

The lords and ladies' remaining murmurs died away. Olenna looked at the king's face. She didn't think he really enjoyed being on display but he almost always wore a smile anyway. He wasn't smiling now, and Olenna realised that there were threads of grey in his black hair.

"My lords and ladies, we are gathered because allegations have been made. One of our great lords is dead and Maester Pycelle has made the accusation that it is poison. And he has named House Martell as the responsible party."

That was no surprise to anyone. But he had to start with the obvious.

"As is his solemn obligation, and with the permission of Lord Tywin's brothers and children, Grand Maester Colemon has examined the body. Your report, Grand Maester?"

The thin-faced Maester rose and bowed to the king before speaking. "Lord Tywin's sickness was not uncommon of in King's Landing ten years ago. The improved drainage has made it almost unheard of. And he had lived here before for years with no such illness. On examination I found traces in his kidneys of certain medicines that in limited quantities can ease digestive difficulties. In much larger quantities, on someone who isn't experiencing sudh difficulties and on someone who is of an advanced age... It would be a dangerous prescription for a Maester to make. Life endangering, in fact."

He sighed. "As I have reported to your Grace, and to Prince Stannis and to..." He searched for a suitable title and failed to find one. "To Sander Clegane, Master Pycelle's conclusion as the cause of death is... incorrect only in the most specific of senses."

The aged maester standing near to the Lannisters stroked his beard. "I believe the words you're looking for, Colemon, are 'Maester Pycelle was correct'."

"You were close enough for a layman," replied Colemon tartly. "And without conducting more than the most cursory of examinations."

"That will suffice. This isn't a debating chamber in the citadel." Robert made a dismissive gesture. "Stannis, I believe Clegane stands ready to report on his own investigation."

"He is. Clegane," the Master of Laws ordered.

The investigator, wearing the three black dogs of his house on a tunic over a leather brigandine, stepped up onto the dais. It gave Olenna a good look at the horrid burns that made a ruin of his face. She didn't think he was a kind man beneath those scars. But she had met men as hard who hid their nature behind pretty faces - Tywin Lannister had been very handsome in his youth, to name one.

The man they called the Hound turned to face the lords. "According to the Grand Maester, these medicines would be introduced as a liquid, most commonly in strong wine to hide the taste. I've interviewed Ser Kevan Lannister and the servants in attendance on Lord Tywin from the time of death back to two days before he first fell ill. Everything he ate or drank after he fell ill was tasted by at least one servant to ensure it was suitably prepared to Maester Pycelle's advance. None of them have showed any signs of dysentry or similar conditions."

"Prior falling ill, Lord Tywin attended the Royal Tourney and three feasts. No guest or servant at the feasts fell ill and he had no dishes or wines that weren't served to others. Poison is not, I am assured, easy to deliver discriminately. At the tourney, however, wine was provided by pages in goblets on request. This is the most opportune method that Lord Tywin could have been poisoned."

"Drugged," Coleman corrected pedantically.

The Hound shot him a glare. "There were twenty pages in service to Westerland and Reach houses assigned to the arena boxes that Lord Tywin was present in. By descriptions taken from the guests there were twenty-one individual pages actually present. The twenty-first was almost certainly the poisoner."

"An anonymous assassin?"

"Not very anonymous. We had an artist draw pictures, over and over, correcting them according to instructions of everyone who saw the indentified page." Clegane produced a sheet of parchment. "The hair is long but if the boy cut his hair short afterwards we'd only have the face to identify him."

Robert looked at the parchment and sighed. "Prince Doran, please have your son Quentyn step forwards."

There were exclaimations from the crowd.

"This is a farce!" Oberyn Martell stepped between his nephew and the king. "This westerland dog makes an accusation and you condemn my nephew. What of your cousin who fled the city after the Lannister died?"

Robert glanced down at the parchment again. "I really don't think this looks like Viserys. The nose is larger and the jaw too square. See for yourself if it looks like your nephew."

The Red Viper leapt up onto the dais, causing Moore to bring his halberd to the ready. The man took the parchment from Clegane.

"This is -"

Clegane's fist caught Martell below the ribs and threw him down from the dais. The Dornish prince barely kept his feet. "I may be a dog, viper, but I'm the King's first."

"That'll do. Both of you."

Oberyn looked at the parchment and then flung it to the floor. "If you're accusing Quentyn then he has a right to trial by combat."

"If you take that picture as an accusation," Robert looked past Oberyn to where Quentyn Martell stood frozen, brown curly hair cropped close around his skull, "Then I would say that you are agreeing there's a resemblence here."

Prince Doran rested one hand on the boy's shoulder. "Quentyn, did you disguise yourself as a page and give Tywin Lannister poisoned or drugged wine?"

"No father."

"Why would he do such a thing!?" snapped Quentyn's sister. Arianne Martell had cut a devastating swathe through the young men at the Grand Council, leaving a string of broken hearts behind her. Everyone from Renly Baratheon to Walder Frey was said to have approached Prince Doran regarding the girl's hand.

An exageration, Olenna thought, but the girl was pretty enough that the count might reflect those who had thought of doing so. "You hadn't met Lord Lannister, had you?" she asked sharply.

"The man who had my aunt mur... dered?" Arianne trailed off as she realised she'd just explained a very plausible motivation.

"I regret to say," King Robert said firmly, "That I believe the accusation is made, Prince Doran. Since Quentyn is quite young, do you wish to call for trial by combat on his behalf."

Doran locked eyes with the king and then dipped his head. "Your Grace, I do. My brother stands as his champion."

* * *

  
**Obara I**

Obara could see that Quentyn was pale as he stood in a box overlooking the arena floor. Two of the City Watch were there with him and six of the King's Men surrounded the box. She knew from having visited him that he hadn't been harmed or treated harshly... but he was never left alone and all the guards reported to Sandor Clegane.

That man worried her. He seemed to care nothing that his investigation would leave a twelve year old prince facing execution. That this could lead to a war. He only cared that he believed he had found the guilty and viewed the trial as an inconvenience that might waste all his work.

"That worries you?" her uncle had asked with a cool disdain when she said as much. "You surprise me, Obara."

Trumpets sounded as Obara's father walked out on the sand. He wore his usual leathers and carried a spear with an ironwood shaft. He'd bought it on arrival in King's Landing from a Northern House, spending a fortune, but as he had told her, better for his weapon to cost coin than his life.

Then the other champion walked out to face him and Obara took a deep breath. Jaime Lannister.

There weren't many men in Westeros who might pose a challenge to Oberyn Martell. But the Prince of the Rock was one of them. If there was one mercy, the sword he carried wasn't Fire. A Valyrian sword might have been sufficient to shear through the spear.

A Septon, one of the High Septon's particular coterie, stepped between the two men. "In the sight of the Seven-Who-Are-One and before the eyes of all men, we gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of Quentyn Martell, who stands accused of murder by poison. May the Father grant justice as is deserved."

The king, his own box distant, rose to his feet. The golden crown on his head shone bright in the sun. "Bring me their weapons," he ordered.

"What's he doing?"

"Whatever it is, your father isn't happy." Arianne was gripping the rail of Dorne's box in the arena. She was right - the darkly handsome face was snarling as two King's Men claimed the spear and a long dagger before carrying them to the royal box where they joined those carrying Jaime Lannister's sword.

Queen Alysanne took out a white cloth and wiped down the sword, the spear's blade, both the daggers.

"She's checking for poisons," Doran instructed them quietly. "Oberyn's reputation at work. Watch the cloth."

Alysanne shook out the cloth and handed it to her husband before taking a bowl and washing her hands. Robert raised the cloth and showed the white to the arena. "The weapons are unstained," he announced, "like the honour of the men before me."

Tyene frowned as the weapons were carried back to the champions. Obara gave her a suspicious look. Even with her father's reputation, the implication was insulting.

"Did you see?"

Arianne's voice was low as she answered her father. "They switched the cloth as Alysanne gave it to her husband."

"Yes. It was well played."

"He protects the Lannister," muttered Tyene.

"This isn't an assassination, you foolish girl." Doran leant forwards. "The King is protecting our honour as best he can. Didn't it occur to you that no one asked where Quentyn got the poison?"

Both Arianne and Tyene stiffened. So did Obara. "What have you done?"

Neither girl met her eyes. Her uncle did. "You're either a better actress than these two or you weren't involved. I'm sure you can guess the rest."

Trumpets drew their attention back to the floor of the arena. They were barely in time to catch the first clash of steel as Oberyn whirled his spear to strike at Jaime Lannister, who caught the blow on his shield, slipped it aside and thrust with his sword. Obara's father side-stepped and the dance began.

In his lighter armour the spearman had more speed and agility, as well as the reach advantage. In exchange, although the swordsman was solidly on the defensive, his shield and sword moved smoothly and the plate armour beneath shed glancing hits. There was no sign of panic on his part.

"He's as good as they said."

"At Harrenhal he was good, despite his youth. Twelve years ago, when he was younger than you are, Arianne. Now... it's like watching Barristan the Bold at his best." Doran shaded his eyes and focused on the pair.

"Will father beat him?"

"I don't know."

If not, Obara would lose a cousin and her father. Doran would lose son and brother. "Father, beat him," she prayed.

"Kill him," concurred Tyene bloodthirstily. "Kill him."

Doran glanced aside briefly, not at Tyene but at Obara. Their eyes met and Obara flinched away. Why would Arianne have put her own brother at risk, if she was the one who arranged for him to carry out the poisoning? She was the first born, the unquestioned heir. And Quentyn was far too open and honest to challenge that.

Down on the sand the Lannister was no longer entirely on the defensive. Now his sword thrust more often and Oberyn was having to parry more often where he'd have dodged before. A lesser spear than the ironwood haft might have failed him by now. It was fortunate that he wasn't facing Fire - a valyrian blade would have...

"Damn!"

"What?" asked Arianne.

"I just realised why Lannister isn't using that Valyrian greatsword his brother brought back from the east."

"Why?"

"He's not used to the balance yet. He's a longsword user by preference and he'd have to give up his shield too."

"Is that a bad thing? At least without the blade..."

"Father's new spear is heavier than he's used to. That's why he was pressing so hard early on, he wanted to win quickly."

"But he didn't."

Obara shook her head - and then inhaled sharply as the first blood of the duel spilled onto the sands. There was a cry of excitement from the public benches.

Oberyn was limping now. That said nothing for his prospects. He took second blood, managing to slam the butt of his spear against the other prince's helmet and break the skin beneath. The Lannister backed up a step, his head no doubt ringing and blood dripping down his face and into one eyee but neither his sword nor his shield wavered and when her father tried to use that as an opening.

She grimaced as a stab caught Oberyn's arm. His sleeve was parted almost from wrist to elbow. If that had caught a vein... and it was bleeding.

Oberyn's next two thrusts were blocked by the shield and then Jaime rushed in close, smashing the edge of his shield against the Dornishman's inner arm. The sword came up and half of Oberyn's helmet fell away.

So did one ear.

There was a lot more blood now, but the Lannister didn't stop. One armoured boot almost caught Oberyn's pushing him to skip back and then there was another wound, high on the chest. More blood on the tip of the Lannister's golden sword.

Oberyn's spear flickered at the face of his opponent, a feint that forced him to raise his shield and then descending, stabbing down into the Lannister's boot.

With a cry, Jaime brought his sword around in a short arc and the Red Viper was left sprawled and twitching on the sand.

Dropping the sword, the westerland prince took the spear with both hands and yanked it out of his boot. Blood trailed behind that foot as he limped over to Oberyn and drove the weapon down again... into the sand beside the fallen man's chest.

The trumpets sounded again. Quentyn Martell leant over the rail of his box and threw up.

Quentyn's father stared bleakly as the Grand Maester and his assistants rushed out onto the sand. "Obara."

"Yes, uncle."

"I would prefer not to have a kinslayer ruling in Sunspear, even if it is kinslaying through incompetence. Until I decide how to my handle my daughter, you and your half-sisters are no longer welcome in Dorne. Your father's paramour and her children may remain with him but not at Sunspear or the Water Gardens."

Obara glanced at her cousin and then at her Prince. "I understand."

"The Wall is the traditional refuge of those politically disadvantaged. And as matters stand it need not be a life sentence." Doran rose. "I should speak to my son before..." He shook his head heavily and left the box.


	21. Chapter 21

**Stannis XIII**

There were few of Robert's decisions that Stannis approved as much as the one to rid the capital of Pycelle. Of course, all good things came to an end.

"I-I would hope that we might be able to put past misunderstandings behind us."

Robert stopped outside the tower that was their destination. "Maester, I think we understand each other perfectly."

"Your Grace?"

"Well, perhaps I'm wrong. Did you really think I wanted to bring two kingdoms to the brink of war?"

"That's hardly fair, your Grace. I can hardly be blamed for Prince Quentyn's plot."

"Only for indiscretion," snorted Stannis. If Pycelle had reported quietly, at least half of the problems around the city would have been averted.

Robert's brow furrowed. "It occurs to me..." He snapped one hand around and caught Pycelle by the shoulder. "Ser Brynden, hold him."

The Riverlands knight caught the old man's wrists. "Your Grace?"

"W-why are you doing this?"

"Stop pretending to dodder," the king said and walked around Pycelle. "It occurs to me that you treated Lord Tywin. If you suspected he'd been drugged then why didn't you treat him."

"I did not suspect until it was too late!"

"Yet you were entirely confident upon his death," noted Stannis. He scratched his chin. "Colemon had to study the body to be sure."

Robert leant over to Pycelle. "That sounds suspicious to me." He stepped back. "I think we need to discuss this with the Grand Maester. In the meantime, please accept the hospitality of one of our cells. I wouldn't want you to run off back to the Citadel until this had been suitably investigated."

Stannis watched with a certain satisfaction as the white-bearded Maester was handed off to some of the King's Men. "Do you think he's the one who actually poisoned the Old Lion?"

"I'm shocked that you'd suggest that." Robert laughed cynically. "Didn't you see the trial by combat prove in the eyes of the Seven that it was Quentyn Martell?"

"If the Gods exist, they care nothing for us."

His brother nodded. "All it proved was that Jaime Lannister is still deadly with a blade. Although he didn't kill Prince Oberyn, which was an interesting choice."

"Still, Quentyn was up to something."

"Yes. Clegane proved that to my satisfaction. Pycelle may have let it happen - or perhaps he's just not all that competent." The king shook his head. "I'm going to speak to the boy."

"He'll play on your soft heart," Stannis warned him. "You know you have no choice but to see him executed now."

"I know." As he walked through the doorway, he slammed one fist against the stone of the arch. "I know." He wiped his knuckles against his tunic, licked the wound and then went up.

Stannis followed him. He'd done it thus far, and perhaps he could prevent any foolishness.

The few chambers at the top of this tower had long been used for prisoners being kept in some degree of comfort. Robert much preferred to use these rather than the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. He'd even had the black cells filled in and sealed rather than make use of them.

There was a guard at the top and Robert waved him back. "I'm just here to see the boy."

When the door was unlocked, Quentyn was sat on the bed. He looked up and then rose to his feet when Robert entered. "Your Grace. Is it... is it time?"

Robert folded his arms. "Not yet."

"I... I won't..."

The King shook his head. "I'm not here to question you. I don't believe you acted alone but I don't believe it was your father or your uncle behind it. That doesn't leave many options... and I don't see how it serves me to chase this further."

Quentyn frowned. "I don't understand."

Nor do I, Stannis thought from where he stood in the doorway. The law is the law and the conspirators pose a threat if they act again.

"Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn would never risk you like that. They have more than enough resources to use someone more deniable. Now they've lost you. That wounds them - terribly. If I dig further into this, they lose more of their children -"

"I didn't..."

Robert pointed at Quentyn. "Do you think all your elders are fools?"

The boy looked down.

"I think that if Doran Martell thought I would go after more of his children, he would do something drastic. I don't want that. He doesn't want that." Robert turned and looked over at Stannis. "He will punish them so that I don't have to."

"I avenged my aunt."

Robert nodded slowly. "I hope you feel it was worth it... tomorrow."

Quentyn nodded slowly. "You said you didn't come here to question me. Why did you?"

"It's purely selfish. I try to look my failures in the eye."

* * *

  
**Barristan VI**

He hadn't intended to attend the execution, but Ashara felt that she should and so he accompanied her. Barristan had seen enough executions for a lifetime, even one as long as his. Now he was a Northern lord he was expected to carry out his own, although fortunately he'd not faced anything yet he hadn't felt he couldn't offer the Black as an alternative to the condemned.

It wasn't a public spectacle. Heralds from all seven of the kingdoms attended as witnesses as Quentyn Martell marched up to the dais where the Iron Throne had once stood. Now a simple block of wood replaced the throne that had once dominated the chamber.

Attendance in the hall was by request alone with the King as arbiter. Arianne Martell was there, escorted by an armsman. Prince Doran himself had visited his son in the morning and walked with him as far as the foot of the dais - the four King's Men around the two Martells acted more like an honour guard than anything more.

A small number of Dornish and Westerland lords attended, two ranks of King's Men - each headed by a knight of the Royal Guards - firmly dividing them. Ashara went to stand with her brother while Barristan, after exchanging a silent glance to her, went to the other side, to a man he had once called his brother.

"Prince Jaime."

The Prince of the Rock was seated in deference to his wounds and not his rank. "Lord Barristan."

"I hope your wounds aren't troubling you?"

"No more than usual. Maester Pycelle will probably be upset he didn't get to treat me, but as the King pointed out, his treatments didn't do my father any good."

Barristan kissed Cersei's hand gallantly and shook hands with Tyrion, Benjen and Kevan.

"Have you met Ser Ilyn?" asked Tyrion politely. "He can't speak for himself, alas."

"I recall." The knight had jested once that it was Tywin ruled Westeros rather than Aerys. The Mad King had removed his tongue as punishment.

"He served as father's executioner," Cersei added. "Jaime suggested he might take care of the matter for the King."

"His Grace declined?"

"Most gracefully." Tyrion spread his hands. "I believe Lord Bolton usually makes the arrangements in King's Landing. Then again, executions of a prince are rare."

Fortunately so, thought Barristan. Quentyn Martell had abused the King's hospitality and had he been less careful with the poison, could have killed many people besides his target. But now Barristan had a son of his own and could imagine how Doran must feel.

The King entered through a side door, accompanied by both his brothers and by Sandor Clegane. All four dressed in unrelieved black save for golden stags on the Baratheon's tunics and the crown on Robert's head. Renly carried the only weapon, a heavy-bladed bastard sword. Barristan thought it likely a greatsword ground down - perhaps after damage to the tip of the blade.

Quentyn Martell stiffened at the sight of the king and of what was evidently an execution weapon.

Robert glanced around the hall and then nodded. He held out his hand, not looking back, and Renly drew the blade. The metallic rasp silenced everyone in the hall and the prince placed the hilt in the king's hand. Folding his hands around it, Robert planted the tip on the stones. "The charges?"

Stannis nodded. "Quentyn Martell, firstborn son of Doran Martell, stands accused of murder by poison of Tywin Lannister, firstborn son of Tytos Lannister. The deed done while both were guests of his Grace, Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And the verdict?"

"All evidence -" grated Sandor Clegane. He paused and then added with evident reluctance: "- and trial by combat - show the accused to be guilty."

Robert sighed. "The sentence?"

"Death." Stannis' voice echoed through the hall.

"Quentyn Martell, you have been accused, judged and sentenced." Robert raised the sword before him. "I offer you the opportunity for final words. Speak now."

Barristan saw the boy tremble but then he stepped to the block. "I do not repent the deed, your Grace. But I regret to have abused your hospitality."

"That was fairly spoken." The king gestured to the block and Quentyn knelt with no further prompting.

Robert Baratheon was no great swordsman but he was a strong man, trained to arms. There was no art to the blow but none was needed. Ilyn Payne managed a hoarse grunt of approval as the king severed the boy's spine with a single cut.

There was a gasp from the Dornish side of the hall. Among the Lannisters, none of Tywin Lannister's children looked away as Robert returned the sword to Renly and strode out of the room.

Behind him, the King's Men carried forward a shroud for the body.

* * *

  
**Ned XIV**

It was a long time since Ned had woken Robert from a night of heavy drinking.

After the execution of Prince Quentyn - after carrying out the execution himself - the King had retreated to the White Sword Tower and his former apartment there. He'd sent for wine and firmly closed the door.

When Ned tried the door it was unbarred. Possibly it had been all night with nothing but respect for the King keeping the Royal Guard from entering.

Robert was sprawled on the bed, still wearing the black of yesterday, cloak pulled up over him as a blanket. A flagon stood by the bed, a second - empty - was on its side. As Ned entered, Robert opened his eyes.

"How much of this did you drink?" Ned asked, picking up the fallen flagon.

"Pretty much all of it. Oh gods, my head."

"How long has it been?"

"Since I got this drunk or since you had to pick up the pieces?" Robert sat up and rubbed his head. "Quite a while either way."

"I'm amazed," Ned said honestly.

"That bloody stupid boy." Robert twisted and kicked his legs off the side of the bed. On the first attempt he managed to kick over the remaining flagon, which wasn't entirely empty as a trickle of wine spilled onto the flagstones. The second try got his feet under him.

"My father taught me that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It's the way of the North to look him in the eyes and hear his final words." Ned picked up Robert's discarded cloak and rolled it into a bundle. "You did right by him, Robert. You hardly forced him to poison the Lannister."

Roberts shrugged and took the cloak back. "At least things held together until the Council had agreed on the basic measures. I was worried things would derail entirely."

"Winter is always a concern."

They descended the stairs and left the tower, Robert shading his eyes as the morning sun beamed down on him. "There are still a lot of things to do before I leave for the Wall."

"While we're here, have you made a decision on Pycelle?"

"Him, I wouldn't have nightmares about shortening by a head, the bastard." Robert raked his fingers through his hair. "Probably shouldn't say that though."

"The Grand Maester is very reluctantly of the opinion that the most he can realistically be blamed for is having bad judgement."

"Let him out. Put him on a ship back to Oldtown. Tell him he's not welcome in the Easterlands and that he'd probably be wise not to visit the Westerlands or Dorne either."

"I'll add the North to that list," Ned said with a sour look on his face. "There are a fair number of good Maester's in the North - men I consider good anyway. He's not in their mould."

"Are you sure you want to take a side? There would be something to presenting yourself as a more moderate voice on the Small Council."

"I'm not going to lie about where I stand, Robert."

The king nodded. "Alright. It's your conscience, I just didn't want to cause you trouble."

"I think the Citadel owes me anyway. With all the books being printed there's more need for maesters to teach people how to read. That's why we're building a new Maester's Tower at Wolf's Den."

"Ah." Robert rubbed his unshaven chin. "Well, with all the woods in the North I suppose you'll be profiting by the demand for paper. Are you printing any books up there?"

"Mostly forms. Why do you ask?"

"If all the books in the North are from south of the Neck then people reading them will only get the southern point of view. Having a more... independent view could be useful."

"I see what you mean there," Ned agreed slowly. "Although most Northern traditions aren't written down."

"Maybe they should be... and by people who aren't Maesters."

"You don't trust the Maesters?"

"I don't trust every Maester. Not unreservedly. And let's just say that the History of the Targaryen Kings that's being written up for me has led me to some interesting points about the neutrality of the Maesters. There's an old saying about it being the winners who write the history books - and the Maesters have written just about all of them."

Ned nodded slowly. "I'm beginning to think we owe Jon Arryn for forcing us to learn our letters."

"Aye. And I didn't make it easy on him."

* * *

  
**Obara II**

A hush fell within the Crown and Obara turned to see that Prince Jaime Lannister had entered the central chamber, at the head of a party of Lannisters in riding leathers.

"Prince Lannister!" called her father.

Had she thought it was silent before? Now it seemed that no one was even breathing. Only days had passed since they shed each other's blood. Obara tried to step between them but Oberyn sidestepped her deftly without even appearing to have registered her presence.

The Prince of the Rock met her father's approach with only the slightest hint of concern. "Prince Martell. Your wounds are healing, I hope?"

"I will recover. Except for the ear. I'll need to style my hair to cover that. And your own wounds?"

"Nothing that won't heal, I'm told."

"By your friend Maester Pycelle?"

"Since he didn't manage to keep my father alive, I don't rely on him for his medical services."

Her father smiled broadly. "A wise decision. It was an excellent fight. I regret the outcome, of course, but it was very exhilarating. We should do it again."

"With training weapons?" suggested an older man who had the Lannister look to him.

"Where's the fun in that, Ser...?"

"Kevan Lannister."

"Ah." Oberyn nodded. "Tywin's brother. You were with him when he sacked King's Landing, weren't you? I remember the name."

The Lannister nodded. "I was. Tell me, Prince Oberyn... if my brother had been the one lying helpless, would you have shown mercy?"

Obara's father shrugged. "In that situation? I would have killed him. His life or my nephews. If the situation was completely reversed, I'm sure Prince Jaime would have done the same."

It looked as if the Lannister would continue but Prince Jaime gestured him to silence. "If I was fighting for my nephew's life, you'd be right. My father and I had our differences but we both care a great deal about our family."

"I can say the same." Oberyn smiled toothily. "Prince Jaime, I wish you a swift and easy ride home to your lovely wife and fine, healthy children."

Jaime's eyes narrowed but there wasn't anything he could specifically take offense at. "And I hope you have a good voyage back to Dorne."

"Ah. I will not be going back to Dorne immediately." Oberyn shrugged. "It seems, having let my nephew down so publically, I should not show my face in Sunspear for a while. And it is so much less handsome than usual, at least until my scars are more healed. So I will be taking ship for Oldtown. I have many happy memories of my time there."

"Well, do enjoy yourself. I hear Maester Pycelle will be going back there."

"Do you know, I have heard the same thing." Stepping back, the Red Viper bowed and made way for the Lannisters to depart - which they did, Kevan Lannister throwing a suspicious look back at them.

Obara walked closer to her father. "Oldtown? I would have thought Essos."

"Ha." He shook his head. "You were thinking Tyrosh, but no. I am not what that young man is looking for." Then he glanced towards Obara's half-sister Tyene. The one who had all but admitted that she had provided Quentyn with the 'medicine' he had used to kill Tywin Lannister.

"You trust her?"

"If she succeeds, it is good. If she fails, it is not so bad. We will see how she manages without her family's support." Oberyn smiled cruelly. "You didn't risk, Obara. That isn't quite so bad, but I expect more of you. Do impress me."

"I'm going to see the Wall."

"Indeed. Commissioned by Prince Doran to inspect the two castles we've been charged to rebuild. Which ones are they...?"

"The Torches and Greenguard," Obara reminded him. "As far away from as the two Lannister castles as possible."

"Very wise." Her father gave her a look. "King Robert will be visiting the Wall himself. I expect you to make a good impression. Ingratiate yourself. He seems to be faithful to his wife but he's impressed by skill at arms and by appointing the Queen of Thorns as his Whisperer, he won't mind you're a woman."

"You want his support?"

"It would be well if he thinks that. He knows he has enemies, it would be best if the Baratheon does not consider us to be among them."

Obara nodded. The serpent was most dangerous when no one could see it in the grass.


	22. Chapter 22

**Varys VII**

Varys hadn't slept well the previous night but he didn't think Illyrio would be able to detect that. "While Maester Pycelle has managed to disgrace himself, it seems that Pentos has little to concern itself with in Westeros. The Great Council was entirely concerned with Westerosi matters - preparations for winter and the possibility of conflict with the savages north of the Wall."

"Hmm. The Baratheon's reign seems stable. That is always a concern for us."

Varys moved his hand, conceding the point. A united Westeros was one that might turn its lords towards expanding into the Stepstones or further north. Even the Braavosi didn't want that.

"Not entirely stable. House Martell's hatred of the Lannister's for the death of Prince Rhaegar's family boiled over. While his Grace managed to settle the matter, Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock and Prince Quentyn, second in line to Sunspear, are dead."

"Hmm. Dorne and the Westerlands... it's unfortunate that they don't share a border or there could be something there to keep them busy. Are there any other conflicts that we can rely upon?"

"King Robert has strong personal ties to the Prince of the North and the Prince of the Vale. The North's power is hard to gauge but they appeared to turn the tide against the Targaryen loyalists ten years ago. The Vale aren't the strongest kingdom but they control a significant amount of trade with Braavos and between them House Arryn and the Manderlys of White Harbour can field considerable fleets." Varys ticked off two fingers. "House Tully aren't great admirers of the Baratheons but any war between the kingdoms would almost inevitably ravage their lands so they're unlikely to risk open war." One more finger. "Even with Tywin Lannister gone, the new Prince of the Rock -"

"I thought their title was Lord?"

"King Robert elevated them to a Princely House at the Great Council in honour of Jaime Lannister having slain King Aerys. A sensible move as it offsets any resentment at Lord Tywin dying while his guest, and it would remain impossible for the Lannisters to reconcile with any movement to restore House Targaryen." Varys ticked off the last finger on that hand and then added his thumb. "Combined with the Easterlands, the Baratheons can reasonably rely on five kingdoms out of the seven."

Illyrio sighed. "And Prince Martell is not so foolish as to begin a war that would be so one-sided."

"Indeed. He would need an alliance and his only option would be the Reach."

"The Reach is a wealthy kingdom."

"A wealthy kingdom, yes." Varys picked up a goblet and sipped on it. "And Lord Tyrell has thus far failed to win back royal favour. It's difficult to say if his actions are poorly thought out or deliberately provocative. However, his sons are on good terms with Prince Renly Baratheon and the military leadership of the Reach has been entrusted to Lord Tarly."

Illyrio frowned. "I don't recall the name."

"His lands are near to Dorne and they have a long and bloody history across the border. Not only did King Robert entrust him with the Wardenship of the South, a little flower in Oldtown advises me that he's recently offered to take Tarly's heir as his squire. The Reach has been neatly neutralised."

"And if there were a Targaryen successor? One whose legitimacy is in no doubt?"

"Such as the young man who made such a creditable effort to pass through Tyrosh and cast aside those who marked his arrival and departure?"

"Quite so. For example, you named the Easterlands as the Baratheon's kingdom but that is surely an over-simplification. Many houses in the Crownlands must still favour their traditional overlords."

"Some, yes. The Narrow Sea Houses who tread lightly when it comes to the matter of our merchants' bond-servants, to give one example. And there were lords in both the Vale and the Stormlands that stood for the Dragon when their overlords chose to overthrow the Targaryens. The principal concern would be that such lords are scattered and represent small factions within their kingdoms. It would take more than one unproven leader to bring those sparks into the sort of flame you envisage."

Illyrio smiled - a smile Varys knew of old, one that suggested the man thought he knew more than Varys did. And at times he had been right. "We shall see."

After they had finished their drinks and exchanged further pleasantries, the magister made his exit and Varys withdrew to his bedchamber. Not however, to go to sleep.

Instead he drew out one of the several cases he had stacked beneath his bed. Most contained little of importance - winter garments that had been set aside for years, for example. One contained a modest fortune in jewels and coins. If he had need to flee the city, this would hopefully be enough to bribe his way through the gates and pay his way to a place of safety. There was a heavy dagger in the case too.

That case was a secondary security for the real treasure though. Anyone who was looking for hidden wealth might well decide they'd found what they wanted and ignore a smaller, more humble casket tucked behind the jewellery case.

There was no lock, just a catch that was purposefully stiff to open. Varys had to work at it gently with a letter opener to open the casket.

Within, just as it had been when he last examined it, lay the dragon egg.

Robert's gift to him and worth more to the discriminating than three cases of jewels such as that which it was hidden behind. Varys reached into the casket and lifted it out with both hands. It was as hard as stone and - perhaps his imagination - as warm as stone that had been warmed by the sun for all of a long summer day.

Are you to blame? he wondered. You're a strange little mystery, almost as curious as the question of why Robert Baratheon chose to give you to me. Are you the cause of my dreams?

He'd dreamed of scouring houses and mansions he remembered from his youth as a thief, and of doing the same to the Red Keep and other Westerosi castles he'd visited as Aerys' Master of Whispers. Everywhere he could see wealth and secrets, but never that which he had sought.

And always behind him, as if stalking him, the flutter of wings.

"What was I seeking?" he mused out loud and then caught himself. It was a poor habit for a man who concerned himself with secrets to fall into.

Were those wings... he cradled the egg cautiously to his chest as if it was infinitely delicate. After all these years, why now would he dream of dragons?

* * *

  
**Sansa I**

Sansa wore her best dress as she and her brothers and cousins stood on the steps of the Keep to greet their guests. She'd combed her hair carefully and plaited it herself while Septa Mordane had to chase Robb, Rick, Bran and Joff to make sure they didn't dirty their own finery and that their hair was tidy.

The littles - Jon and Joanna - had their hands firmly secured in Aunt Lyanna's as she stood at the bottom of the steps. They had only just arrived in time because no sooner had her aunt approved that the boys were presentable than Ser Rodrik had waved for the gates to be opened by Jorey and Walder.

The riders poured through the castle gates like a spring torrent breaking through the ice of a winter stream. To Sansa's disappointment most of the men wore steel and wool, just like any of the lords who sometimes visited Winterfell. But the banners that the wind tugged at weren't those of the north.

"Father! Mother!" Joffwyn called out and pointed to a crimson banner. He was right, for beneath the banner rode his parents, quiet Uncle Benjen and the golden-haired Aunt Cersei. Both wore mail polished until it shone like silver and long crimson cloaks trimmed with silver furs.

Sansa heard her aunt Lyanna take a deep breath and saw that her eyes were fixed on the head of the column. The man in the lead was larger than father. He seemed to her to be almost the size of Walder, who claimed to have giant's blood, and over his riding leathers his surcoat was finer than that of those around him, though it was the same black stag on a field of gold. He did not dismount at first, for he was staring back at Lyanna with striking blue eyes, face very still.

He didn't ride alone. Two of his companions had the same raven-dark hair, save that theirs wasn't touched by grey. One was a very handsome young man, older than Robb or Rick but not quite full grown, and the other was a girl of around Sansa's age, astride a black pony. It had to be the king and one of his daughters, but she wasn't sure about the young man. Prince Eddard perhaps? That always confused her that the crown prince had the same name as her father.

"Robert," murmured Aunt Lyanna.

Robb looked around and then moved down the stairs, having to hop off the edge to avoid knocking down Joanna and Jon. He bowed deeply before the king. "Your Grace," he said clearly. "Winterfell is yours."

The words seemed to break whatever mood had taken the king and he swung himself down from his saddle. "Well now, if you are Robb Stark then I would say that Winterfell is yours - at least until your parents return."

"Thank you, your Grace."

Aunt Lyanna led the other children down as King Robert helped the other girl down and a pudgy boy clambered down from his pony to take the reins. "Your Grace." She released the children's hands and curtseyed.

"Lyanna." The king reached down, took Lyanna's hands and drew her up. "I told you this when we last spoke. Consider me another brother. Do you kneel to Ned or Benjen?"

"She doesn't," Benjen confirmed, approaching and lifting Joff up. "My gods, you've grown." The boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck while Cersei scooped up Joanna.

Sansa looked away, missing her own parents. A hand touched her head and she turned back and saw it was the king. "You must be Sansa," he told her. "You look just like your aunt when she was younger."

"Because now I'm an old woman?" asked her aunt, her sharp tone offset by a smile.

"Well you're a little taller than when we first met." He smiled down at Sansa. "Would you like to know a secret?"

She nodded, curiously, and then shrieked in surprise as he put his hands around her waist and lifted her up so he could whisper into her ear.

"Really?"

King Robert laughed and put her down then placed one hand over his heart. "Would I lie?"

"Robb, Robb!" she grabbed her big brother's hand.

"What?"

"We're going to have a little sister. Or a brother."

The king laughed again. He seemed to do that a lot. "Now, introductions. This is my daughter Cassana. I hope you'll be a good friend to her, Sansa."

Sansa curtseyed to Princess Cassana, who did the same.

"My brother Renly." The king patted the handsome young man on the shoulder and then looked over to the boy holding the horses. "And my squire, Sam Tarly."

"My ladies," the pudgy boy said shyly and bowed.

Aunt Lyanna smiled at him. "You have my sympathies, young Sam. Didn't your last squire run away to Essos, Robert?"

"Oh he hadn't been my squire for a few years. You've heard from Ned, then."

"There have been a few ravens." She smiled. "He had several questions for Maester Luwin about how we can make paper out of wood instead of rags."

The king blinked. "Rags?"

"Yes, Robert. How did you think it was made."

"Uh... wood pulp, soaked somehow and..." He looked at her and sighed. "No?"

"Well Luwin has a whole shed of pots of wood shavings so I hope he hasn't been wasting his time."

Sansa looked over at Cassana who giggled. "Prince Jon says father is very eccentric."

* * *

  
**Viserys IX**

Black wings beating to the side of him, a clear blue sky above marked only by a dark-feathered bird looking down past him.

Viserys lowered his gaze and saw below the world consumed. Glaciers of ice marched to meet storms of fire.

There was nowhere on the earth below for men. Only the skies were safe and the skies belonged to bird, to dragons and those who rode on them.

Where could I ride?

I could ride anywhere.

But where was there to go in a world of ice and fire?

Daenery's face, glimped in the divide between the two warring elements below. Viserys grasped the reins of his steed and they dived...

With a gasp, he woke. The sun was low in the sky but enough light broke through the entrance of the tent to see that he'd kicked off his blankets in the night. It was warm and muggy, as it had been every day since the Windblown made camp here.

No one else in the tent was awake yet so he tried to be quiet as he pulled his boots on. Picking up his sword and swordbelt he crept out and into the morning sunshine. The scene he saw was one of those becoming familiar to him now that he'd been in the Disputed Lands for six months. The Windblown were camped around two-thirds of the way towards a tributary city of Myr. Between them and any further advance was a second mercenary company of approximately the same size.

Since any battle between the two companies would be chancy the campaign was thus deadlocked until either Lys or Myr sent reinforcements. There were occasional skirmishes between scouts - he'd been involved in a few - checking the opposing lines for any signs of such reinforcements arriving.

This far south even winter didn't prevent the three south-western Free Cities from fighting over the triangle of land between them. Not that winter was a problem at the moment. Aegon the Conquerer had fought in this part of Essos before he began his epic conquest of Westeros. As far as Viserys could see, the three cities hadn't stopped fighting over the lands ever since. Even when they briefly united under the Triarchy, conflicts had bubbled beneath the surface.

The green landscape gave some credance to why though. These were rich lands. Although only slightly further north than Dorne's deserts, the lakes and rivers to the east left them well watered. If one power dominated the lands then they could well dominate the lands east of the Rhoyne.

Viserys supposed that that was precisely why if any one of the three cities grew too strong the others would find common cause against them - or during their brief alliance, why cities as far away as Lorath had joined a league against them.

"You seem deep in thought," observed a quiet voice and Viserys turned to see his commander watching him, an amused look on his face.

"Just contemplating history." He went back to buckling his belt around himself.

"Ah. Thinking of old enemies?"

"More of old causes. Wars in this part of the world."

"Ah. Well there's rarely a shortage of those. Not the most lucerative of work but it's reliable." The Tattered Prince stretched his joints. "It isn't your day to take a patrol is it, Ser Viserys?"

"No."

The older man nodded. "Well do so anyway. According to the Pentos Broadsheet, the Myrish have signed a contract with the Second Sons so there could be five hundred more men marching towards us."

"You read the Pentos Broadsheet?" The Tattered Prince had first become famous when he fled his home city rather than being appointed as the Prince of Pentos. Then again, it was an perilous post since the prince was executed in the event of misfortune on the part of the city.

"I like to keep track of old friends. And of old enemies."

Viserys nodded. "May I take a look when you're done? There may be news of Westeros."

"By all means. Broaden your mind, Ser Viserys. You can lose wealth and lose weapons, but nothing save senility can strip you of your wits."

* * *

  
**Cassana I**

She couldn't believe that winter hadn't come to the North. It was so cold! And yet everyone from Sansa, at Winterfell, to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, assured her that this was normal summer weather in the North. It was so cold!

She was spending a lot of time with father though. And it was time she didn't have to share with Mya, Bella, Dany and probably Lyanne when she was older. Or Eddard, although he was more interested in running and playing with the other boys of the Crown than in sitting with their father.

She shared father's chamber everywhere they travelled and when there weren't girls her own age to meet she could sit in meetings with him, the way mother did sometimes. Father had even spent a day at Winterfell sitting with she and Sansa as the Septa taught them embroidery and telling them both stories. Sansa had been enchanted by the romance of Sheridan and Delenn, and of the great castles of Babylon in the days when the giants and the children of the forest still lived south of the Neck.

There weren't any children to play with at the Wall though. Not children of rank, anyway. The men of the Night's Watch didn't have women - or if they had had them once they would have given them up for the Wall - and with no women there could be no children.

Of course, here at Oakenshield and further down the Wall at Sable Hall, there would be Easterland knights and men-at-arms, so there might be women coming with them but for now there were none. And at Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, which was between the two castles. Cassana knew, because she'd been there when father told Prince Benjen Stark and Lord Commander Mormont that even though each kingdom was only supposed to garrison two castles, he would try to find the men and coin for three.

"Do you have more meetings today?" she asked as they went back to the room her father was using as his meeting chamber.

"I think I've met everyone here at least twice, so hopefully not. Do you have something you want to do?"

Cassana rubbed her fingers together. "Could we go up the Wall again?"

Father raised his eyebrows. "You want to go up again?"

She nodded. "Looking off the side was like looking down from a dragon must be."

"Well you'll have to have a rope around you then, one secured firmly at the other end. I won't have you falling off."

Cassana smiled and nodded. Father fretted fiercely that she'd fall off, even though she'd never slipped once on the ice of the wall. He'd even pretended to be too nervous to go within a yard of the edge himself to try to make her be more careful. She'd known better, of course, since father wasn't afraid of anything.

"Well, as you wish then."

However, when they reached the door, Samwell Tarly was waiting with a man in the unrelieved black of the Night's Watch.

"I beg your pardon," the fat boy said nervously. "I thought it best to wait here for you, your Grace, rather than risk missing you on the way to the hall."

"That's probably good thinking, Sam." Father patted the boy on the shoulder. "I don't think I've met you before."

The Night's Watch brother dropped to one knee. "Mance Rayder, your Grace."

"One of Jaremy Rykker's Rangers. One of the best, or so I hear."

Mance nodded as he rose. "I'm honoured that you know my name. May I speak to you in private, your Grace?"

Her father scratched his chin, examining the man carefully, then nodded to Samwell, who unlocked the door. "You can have the afternoon to yourself, Sam. I don't have any duties for you until dinner."

"Thank you, your Grace."

Cassana went through the door first and to the chair she used, out of the way to one side. Mance Rayder looked at her and then to father.

"I trust my daughter's discretion. You may do the same." Father sat down behind his desk. "So what brings you here, Mance Rayder?"

The ranger looked at Cassana again and then sighed. "Your Grace, I know no other life than the Watch. I was born north of the Wall, to a Wildling woman killed on a ranging. The rangers brought me back and I grew up at the Wall."

Cassana leant forwards. So there were children here! Or at least there had been one.

"When I was of age I swore the oath. I joined the Rangers and I believe I have served well."

"You aren't the only one who believes that."

"Your Grace, I knew nothing when I swore the oath. I had never been further south than the Gift." He laughed and shook his head. "I had barely ever even met a woman or a child."

"You aren't here on official business, are you Mance Rayder?"

Mance Rayder dropped to his knees. "Your Grace, I beg a boon of you. Absolve me of my oath. I did not know what I was swearing to."

Under his breath, Cassana heard her father whisper a word her mother would have spanked her for using.


	23. Chapter 23

**Obara III**

Greengard had been abandoned and derelict for decades. Obara had seen worse ruins in Dorne but there the dry weather tended to preserve the stonework. The North's weather seemed to be more destructive.

"Is it this bad at all the other castles?" she asked the other visitor to the keep.

Renly Baratheon shook his head "I think some of them are even worse. Greengard was only abandoned around the reign of Aegon IV. I haven't been westwards from Castle Black but even Robert isn't talking about restoring the Night's Fort."

The Prince of Summerhall and his party had arrived the day before, charged with gathering an overview of the situation along the wall. Wrapped in every fur she could find and feeling slightly ridiculous, Obara had welcomed them in her uncle's name and offered the hospitality she could - fortunately she'd been able to bring down a boar the day before. The woods south of the wall were lousy with game.

"There's still a lot to do. Just to begin with, the forest's grown far too close to the castle."

"Well at least there's a source of wood."

Renly chuckled. "Just don't cut down any weirwoods. This is still the North."

Obara turned her head towards him. "So what do you think about the North? Other than that it's cold."

The man shivered. "That's the first thought, isn't it? Certainly my first regret in asking Robert to give me something important to do."

"Is that why you're out here?"

"And to think I could be in Summerhall, overseeing the repairs there." He stretched. "It seems so empty here. I grew up at Storm's End and in King's Landing but here... you could ride for days and not meet anyone."

"There are parts of Dorne as desolate as that," she told him. "Away from the rivers there are deserts and mountains where no one lives."

"Somehow I doubt anyone seeks those places out."

"Well, not often."

"I suppose my dear good-sisters have a point about King's Landing having nothing for young men save drink, dice and..."

"And whores? I do know the word, Renly."

He gave her an uncomfortable look.

"My father gave me a choice when I was a child. My mother's way or his. I chose the spear."

The Baratheon threw back his head and laughed. "Aye, you do. Although I suppose I'm like my brothers in that wenching isn't a passion of mine."

Obara blinked. "It's odd to think - the King is said not to have mistresses or aught else, but when my father speaks of him, he claims he was a lecher. And he has his elder daughters." Born outside marriage, like herself and her sisters.

"A young man's folly, or so he says." Renly shrugged. "Stranger take it, I've never understood what goes on inside his head."

She nodded. "So if it's not your passion... have you ever..."

"Gods, woman!" He sat up in the bed. "I'm not that inexperienced."

"Oh good." She caught his shoulder and pushed him against the thin mattress. "First times can be so tedious."

Renly yelped in surprise and, she thought, excitement as she began to nibble.

* * *

  
**Cassana II**

Cassana had to bite her tongue during dinner so as not to ask her father about... about the Rayder Matter, she decided, capitalising the second word in a way that would have gotten her a scolding from a Maester if she'd written it down.

With dinner complete, she was escorted back to the royal bedchamber by a maid and the silent Ser Mandon. By the time her father caught up, she was in her nightgown and tucked beneath the heavy blankets of the truckle bed brought for her. On entering, he smiled at her, plucked her night cap from the foot of his bed and knelt to tuck it over her head.

"That will be all tonight," he said firmly and Ser Mandon nodded, ushering the maid out before him and then closing the heavy door. He'd stand watch outside though, for some hours before one of his fellow Royal Guards relieved him.

Cassana's father sat on the bed and started working his boots off. "So what's on your mind, daughter of mine?"

She looked at him and he smiled. "You were too quiet at dinner."

"I don't understand what you said to Mance Rayder," Cassana admitted. "You're the king. Can't you just order it and and free him?"

"That I cannot." He tucked one boot under his bed and started work on the other. "For a start, legally the Night's Watch are under the authority of no king. They listen, because they aren't fools, but they owe me no obedience. To add to that, there are a number of them - not many, but vocal, who joined the Night's Watch becase they didn't want me as their king."

"Why didn't they?"

"Loyalty to the previous king, or at least to his dynasty. Not everyone was as displeased with Aerys as Ned and I were." Her father finally rid himself of the second boot and rubbed his feet, still wrapped in stout woollen socks. "Anyway, in legal terms all I could do would be to make a request. I could pressure them, of course. Bullying, basically. I don't admire the tactic but I've used it in the past."

"Couldn't you do it now?"

"Probably. But in the past I've only done so to give them something that they needed. This is something that could destroy them, Cassana."

She sat up, pushing back the blankets. "How could that happen. Haven't the Night's Watch been here forever?"

"Don't do that. It gets really cold at night." He padded over and pushed her back into bed and tucked the blankets around her again. "The Night's Watch is old... eight thousand years, some of the Maesters say. They might be right. All that time they've been held together by their traditions... and by their oath. If one person is released from that oath, why should others not be released? And in that case, what value does the oath have?"

"Then you're not going to help him? You said you'd look into it?"

Father shrugged and sat back. "Sometimes if I sleep on a matter, I'll come up with an idea. It's worth a try."

"And if you don't?"

He went back to his own bed and pulled back the blankets. "He's a ranger, Cassana. What, exactly, is stopping him from going on a long ranging and never coming back to the Wall?"

"But would the Night's Watch let him go?"

Father smiled at her and unbuckled his belt before slipping under the blankets. A moment later he pulled his pants out from beneath the blankets and threw it onto a chest. "Only if they know he's dissatisfied, Cassana. So if you like the man, don't tell anyone about his request, right?"

Cassana nodded.

"Good girl." Father blew out the candle and plunged the chamber into darkness.

She lay in the darkness and snuggled deeper beneath the blankets. Father was right about it being cold. "Father?"

"Yes?"

"When Mya marries Lord Ronnet, will I ever see her again?"

"I should think so. Griffin's Roost isn't all that far from Storm's End so she can visit when we're there, or we can visit her... and she might well come to court sometimes."

"Ah." Well that was good. "I'm going to have to get married too, aren't I?"

"It's not absolutely definite, but it seems likely that you'll get married one day."

"If I marry Eddard, can I stay at the Crown?"

"Cassana," her father said patiently. "If you and Eddard married, you'd kill each other within a week. As it is, I suspect I'm not short two children because when your mother sends you to your rooms they're different rooms."

"Oh."

"Besides, Aerys the Mad married his sister. And his parents were brother and sister too. I'm not convinced it's healthy. Do you remember the studbook for our horse breeding? What are the rules there?"

"Don't breed horses with a sire or dam in common, or if their sire or dam have a sire or dam in common," she recited. "So is it the same with people?"

"It's a good guideline."

"What about Ser Tyrion?"

She heard some movement from the bed. "Cassana, what's all this thinking about getting married? You're years too young."

"You told me it's never too early to think ahead. And mother said you were taking me with you to show me off to lords with eligible sons."

There was a groan and father mumbled something under his breath.

"And Prince Jaime's aunt Genna was married when she was my age."

"I don't think she's ever forgiven her father or her husband for that. And why Ser Tyrion?"

"Well he's only as tall as me so we could dance together..."

"You're likely to get taller, Cassana. But if he's not married when you're old enough and if you still want to marry him by then, remind me and I will think about it. I'm not promising anything more than that."

"I will, daddy. Good night."

"Good night, Cassana."

That night she dreamt of being at Storm's End, watching birds flying over the ocean. A black one circled the tower though, while her father rode his horse across the waves towards her, always getting closer but never quite arriving. It was a silly dream, because the bird had three eyes.

* * *

  
**Olenna IX**

There was a balcony looking out from the Rose Tower of the Crown, across King's Landing towards the Sept of Baelor and the Red Keep. It wasn't as pretty as the bower beneath the Red Keep but it was more private and increasingly, Olenna didn't wish to walk far. There were days when she had her manservants carry her up or down stairs.

It was a summer day, which was getting rather predictable. At least Mace had agreed that all his sons would spend a year in the north, getting a taste of winter before the real one came. Then the boys had decided who would go first with dice. Garlan had lost and was on the road north with a hundred men from Highgarden and as many Oldtown soldiers. His other grandfather's retainers. Summer knights for summer days. They'd be in for a nasty surprise from what she'd heard.

The Wall was less a fortification than a man-made mountain range. And she wasn't sure any of them remembered what ice looked like.

There was a girl on the balcony with her. It wouldn't be unusual if it was Bella. Fetching and carrying for Olenna kept her out of Alayne's sight and was probably more educational than the Septa's lessons. Possibly not the Maester's, but she made sure the girl could read and deal with numbers. She still wasn't entirely convinced Mace had learned that adequately, so Maesters clearly weren't reliable for that. Bella, however, hadn't arrived with the lastest messages from the north.

Daenerys wasn't taken into Olenna's confidence so much. She was a sweet girl but there was always the question of how much her brother might persuade her to tell him. She loved him, just as she loved the man who raised her as if she were his own daughter. The woman sometimes called the Queen of Thorns had a suspicion that Viserys had found her regard for him a hostage against his good behaviour. Quite possibly he had resented that.

But then, he would never have confided in the spymistress of 'the Usurper'.

"Lady Olenna." The silver-haired girl curtseyed.

"Save it for the court, girl. You want something, don't you?"

She didn't demur, at least. So she could listen. "May I enquire if you have news of my brother?"

"You may enquire."

Daenerys paused and then her eyes narrowed. "Do you... no. What news do you have of my brother, Lady Olenna?"

"Oh very good, girl. You have your father's imperiousness down. I think your brother has more of your mother's character."

"You will not deflect me."

Olenna looked at the violet eyes and then spread her hands. "Peace, child, I will tell you." Not quite nine years, but she was growing up. Good. Robert hadn't confided her any of his plans for the Targaryens, probably in part because he hadn't settled on any. But one thing that was clear was that he didn't want his daughters - lawful, natural or fostered - to grow up without both spine and wits.

Daenerys took a seat opposite her and arched her eyebrow.

"Viserys landed in Tyrosh and then tried to throw off pursuit by taking ship for Dorne and then switching at sea to a ship going to Lys. Not a bad attempt for an amateur."

"But not sufficient?"

"We have people in Lys, dear." She opened a folder on the table and refreshed her memory. "He stayed in a rather nice Inn for three nights. Expensive, but at least secure which isn't a terrible decision if you're travelling with valuables. After that he met with the Tattered Prince and enlisted with the Windblown."

The girl tilted her head. "Who are the windblown?"

"They're a sellsword company. It's not at all unusual for a young man of good birth to sell their sword in Essos for a few years. Oberyn Martell had his own company at one time, although he did wind up in debt and having to ask for help from his brother. A very handsome man, but not good with money."

"So will Viserys be going to war?"

"He already has done. The Lysenes have been fighting the Myrish and Tyroshi over the Disputed Lands for hundreds of years. He's a young man so he'll probably find it very exciting but he has a sensible captain so it's unlikely he'll be in too much danger."

"The Tattered Prince." Daenerys frowned. "Where is he prince of?"

"He was the Prince of Pentos. Or he would have been. It's a very comfortable position to have as long as Pentos prospers, but the Magisters have all the power and if Pentos suffers a disaster, the prince is sacrificed to their gods." She smiled. "The Tattered Prince decided it wasn't for him and fled the city. Sensible, you see. He's a very experienced sellsword and men like that don't fight desperate battles."

"Isn't that cowardly?"

"Don't be silly, girl. It's practical. A sellsword captain's first loyalty is to his company. If he retreats unnecessarily then their reputation suffers and they have trouble finding employment. If he fights unnecessarily then the company loses men and their gear. A captain lasts only if he knows when to fight and when to retreat and fight another day, and the Tattered Prince has lasted at least ten years in the trade. A cautious commander like that is a man who'll keep your brother alive. Isn't that what matters?"

Daenerys sighed and nodded. "I wish he was here, though."

"Don't be greedy." Olenna pushes a small dish of sweetmeats across the table towards Daenerys. "And don't spoil your appetite for dinner."

The girl dipped her head and then picked up one of the treats just as Bella bustled in. "Lady Olenna, this is important."

Olenna accepted the message and ran one finger across the seal. "Tsk. Just because it's important is no reason to be careless, Bella. When it's important is when you absolutely must get it right."

The girl folded her hands in front of her and bowed her head. "I'm sorry, Lady Olenna. I won't do it again."

"You'd better not."

Daenerys looked from one of them to the other. "But... if it's sealed, how do you know it's an important message, Bella?"

The baseborn girl reddened. Olenna firmly pulled the sweetmeats back across the table. No treats for the careless. "Maester Coleman says it was sent directly from Oakenshield. Usually a raven would be sent to Winterfell and relayed from there because they have more ravens available. So this must be one that couldn't be delayed."

"That's clever," Daenerys said admiringly.

Olenna had to agree. Bella's tongue might be careless but she had a gift for blather. She cracked the seal and read the contents. Then she read it again, more carefully. "Oh. Do you girls have good dresses - ones that fit you?"

"Yes, Lady Olenna. The Queen had us fitted with new dresses just a seven-day ago."

"Good." She rolled up the message again. "Because when King Robert gets hold of Renly there'll be either a royal wedding or a royal funeral!"

* * *

  
**Jon XIV**

He read the letter twice, committing it to memory. Then he touched the corner of it to the candle and held the page out of the window until his fingers were almost scorched. The cinders blew away in the wind, scattering across miles of the Vale, spread out beneath his window.

No one could read the letter. Such news was too sensitive.

Jon snorted. Everyone would know soon enough. Still, there was a difference between rumour going and Robert's letter possibly falling into the wrong hands.

Then he put his hands on the sill and sighed. He'd managed to keep things stable during his years as Hand, unless you counted the Greyjoy Rebellion. And Lord Estermont had avoided anything like that. Ned had been Hand for less than a year and this was a result. "I shouldn't have left this to Ned and Robert."

"Left what?"

He turned and saw Lysa standing in the doorway. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you open the door."

She made a non-commital noise. "You seem worried."

"Robert and Ned have made a mess of things. Well, to be fair it's mostly Renly's fault."

"He's a nice boy," she said fondly.

"He's got Oberyn Martell's daughter with child."

Lysa paused. "Oh."

"And he wants to marry her."

"He sounds like a responsible young man."

Jon repressed a sigh at this approval. Lysa could be sweet when she wasn't sulking. But thinking ahead of political consequences was beyond her. He supposed it wasn't fair to compare her to his previous wives but it was hard not to. "The problem, Lysa, is that it's Baratheon-Martell wedding - even if she doesn't share her father's name - and if it's to be done before the child is born then it will inside a year - or not much past - that her cousin was executed for the murder of Lord Tywin. The Lannisters will be furious, of course, but it won't look well to the other kingdoms either."

"Ah." Lysa walked over to the window and stood next to him, looking out over the Mountains of the Moon.

The mountain clans were getting active, which wasn't making his bannermen happy - not with hundreds of their young men going North to spend two years on the Wall forts. Hopefully when the first of them came back, hardened by the service, it would still the murmuring.

"Would House Martell be offended if they aren't wed?"

"Given Oberyn Martell's behaviour over the years - and the fact the girl didn't drink moontea - they'd have no grounds to complain if Renly took custody of the child and never let Obara near them. Robert has at least left precedent for keeping royal bastards at court. Renly is being less reasonable."

"Perhaps he's in love."

"We could probably manage if he wanted her to be his mistress."

"You are the soul of romance, my dear husband." Lysa pulled on her plaited hair. "Where does she stand in the succession. The Dornish recognise bastards for that, don't they?"

"No, they'll allow female succession but not the illegitimate." He frowned. "Although... hmm."

Lysa looked on him.

"It's an interesting thought actually. If she were legitimised then she would be fourth in line for Dorne, after her cousins and her father. It's possible that the lords might accept that as a warning to Dorne: if the senior Martell lineage continue to be problematic, Oberyn's line - which would also be Renly's line - would stand to rule in Sunspear."

"The way it was murmured that Stannis' line might rule the Vale if I hadn't given you an heir?"

Jon chuckled, took her hand and planted a courtly kiss on her knuckles. "Something like that. It wouldn't please the Lions of Casterly Rock but it would ease some of the tensions. Renly's heirs will stand in succession only after Robert and Stannis' lines - which gods be good have proven fruitful. If in daughters, not sons..."

"Robert, Eddard, Stannis, Orys and then Renly. That's not so many," Lysa admitted. "Do you think..."

"And children can die all too easily," Jon noted. He wasn't thinking of the royal children but of his own sons. Both had suffered bouts of sickness in their young lives. Hopefully they would grow past them. "Yes, if that is Doran's plan then it's a cunning one. His heirs in Sunspear and his brother's in King's Landing... alas, we can no more ensure additional sons for the elder Baratheons than we can command the tides."

"The king's daughters can't inherit," his wife reminded him. "But their sons can, once they have them."

"That will be years away though. And Robert can't bring in Dornish rules of succession. Even this wasn't a Dornish problem in the first place, the Dance of Dragons casts a long shadow." He turned away from the window. "Robert will have to forbid the marriage. Displeasing Renly is the lesser evil here."

"And if Renly defies him?"

Jon thought of his one-time squire. While the boy was more than able to adapt to female company, an inevitability around a court where Lady Olenna, Queen Alysanne and sometimes Princess Aemma were present, he didn't recall him forming any strong attachments before. His closest ties had always been towards other boys and men - the Tyrell boys, Viserys, a smattering of squires and young knights from the Vale and the Stormlands. "You think he's so smitten?"

"I think it may be his first love." Lysa walked to him and rested her face against his shoulder. He could feel her hair against his chin. "Do you remember your first love?"

And now he felt old. "A scandal. Wonderful, just what Robert needs. I shall give him such counsel as I may." Jon closed his arms around his wife. "Later."

Lysa stiffened in his embrace and then gently closed her own arms around his waist. "Of course, my prince," she murmured.


	24. Chapter 24

**Obara IV**

Obara held onto her saddle and wondered if she'd heard Renly correctly. "You want to marry me?"

"You don't want to marry me?" asked Renly from beside her horse, sounding hurt.

"I never thought of it. I'm a bastard," she reminded him. "And you're a prince."

"So is your father."

Obara sighed. "My mother was a whore, Renly. Your brother would be furious. You're a good man and I care for you, but it cannot be."

"I've written to him already."

It was more than ten years since Obara had last fallen off a horse but she felt less steady now than she had been when she was nine and tried a jump that neither she nor her mount had been ready for. She'd been lucky it was her leg and not the horse's that broke. "What did he say?"

"That's why you're invited." Renly beamed up at her. "He wants to meet you, formally."

Obara hadn't been there when Quentyn had been executed but Arianne had told her about it. She wondered if Robert had brought the sword with him to the wall. It was clearly too late to run away though. "I can't help but feel he may not be as happy about this as you..." She broke off. "As we hope."

Renly's face lit up and Obara felt something melt inside. She'd heard maidens in King's Landing claim that the Baratheon brothers shared the same blue eyes but she'd never seen it. King Robert's eyes were veiled and Prince Stannis' eyes were fixed. Renly's eyes seemed to sparkle in comparison. "Don't worry. Robert won't mind about your parentage."

"That isn't entirely true, but I suppose you aren't entirely wrong either."

They looked up and Obara saw Robert standing in the doorway, flanked by a dark-haired girl-child and a fat boy in Baratheon livery. The king beckoned to them. "Welcome to Oakenshield, Lady Obara. And welcome back, brother."

Obara dropped to one knee, mind still trying to assess just how much trouble she was in. Her father would either be very pleased or utterly enraged. On the other hand, he was thousands of miles away. Robert Baratheon was right here.

"Brother." Renly took Obara's hand and drew her up. "May I present to you my betrothed."

The king's eyes narrowed. "I would be glad if you would both join me in my solar."

Renly paled slightly. "Of course."

Robert turned and walked back into the keep. The boy followed him but the girl - Obara recognised her now as the king's daughter Cassana - descended the steps and hugged Renly, burying her face against her uncle's chest and then turning to look at Obara appraisingly.

"My goodness, princess, did you miss me?"

Cassana nodded, eyes not leaving Obara.

"You know, if you hug my betrothed like this, you might be able to feel your new cousin inside her."

"Renly!" Obara exclaimed. "I'm not so far along as that."

"I stand corrected." Renly peeled Cassana's arms from around him with clearly practised ease. "Is your father very angry with me?"

The girl shrugged. "It was funny at first. He didn't believe the first message and thought someone was japing. Then when Lady Olenna wrote to him he went up the Wall with Ser Mandon. Apparently he walked almost halfway to Woodswatch before turning back."

Renly winced.

"Is that good or bad?" asked Obara.

"Father says he does his best thinking when he's walking," explained Cassana.

A Night's Watch brother emerged from the keep. "Prince Renly," he said with a smile. "You may not have heard but your brother bellowed something about how he told you to come to his solar...?" He held the door and made a sweeping bow.

"Ser Mance," replied Renly.

"I've not been knighted," the man replied cheerfully as they went past him. "Although I'm told it might give me more credibility in the south."

Renly gave him a surprised look. "You're going south?"

"Father appointed him to the Small Council," Cassana explained.

"I'm to represent the Lord Commander there for a year or two." The man bowed slightly to Lady Obara. "Mance Rayder, at your service."

"Obara Sand," she replied automatically and offered her hand.

He clasped it, wrist to wrist, as was the fashion here in the north. "Who else could you be?" His smile grew merry. "Though if I may counsel you, my lady, do bear your child further south lest you find him wrapped in black and swearing the oath before a heartstree."

"Isn't that how marriages are done here."

"It's also how northerners swear themselves to the Night's Watch," Renly told her. "Southerners do so in a Sept, I believe?"

"By whatever they hold holy," Rayder told them as they reached the top of the stairs. He knocked on the door. "Your grace, your brother and Lady Obara are here."

The door opened and the squire emerged. "Cassana," called the king. "Samwell will be tutoring you on your numbers today. Stay with him while I talk to your uncle."

The girl made a face. "Yes daddy."

"And don't pout. Knowing your numbers is important."

Inside the chamber, despite the fire, it was still cold. The door closed behind Obara with the finality of the Stranger's hand.

Robert glared at her and then at Renly. "Moon tea? You have heard of it?"

"That was my fault, your grace," Obara admitted. "It's hard to get near the Wall, particularly at the abandoned forts, so I was drinking it sparingly to try to make it last. I must have have thinned it too much."

"Hmm." He shook his head. "And while it may work as a preventative, stronger doses afterwards are more dangerous or so I'm told."

"It's not as if you never sired a bastard," Renly complained.

"I'm pleased you intend to take responsibility as the father. It doesn't mean your timing wasn't abysmal. I don't think anyone since Rhaegar has managed to follow his dick into so much trouble."

"You can't stop me from marrying Obara."

The king looked at his brother. "Do you know what Tywin Lannister did when his younger son married someone he disapproved of?"

Renly frowned. "Ser Tyrion is married?"

Robert shifted his gaze to Obara, who swallowed nervously. "I know."

"I thought you would." Robert leant to one side and propped his chin on his fist. "Be very glad I'm not Tywin Lannister." He pushed two letters across the table. "This is for you to sign, Renly. And this is for you, Obara. Unless either of you wishes to reconsider?"

Renly picked up his letter and then passed Obara hers. "A request for a posting to one of the ships of the royal fleet?" he asked.

"You wanted responsibilities," his brother said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "Ser Davos will no doubt find you a place."

Obara read her own letter and then put it down on the table. "Legitimization? I don't have an objection but..."

"If your child is a son he'll be fifth in the line of succession to my throne. Making him fifth in succession to your uncle's throne pleases my sense of symmetry."

She counted. "Ah, fourth... Now that Quentyn is..."

Robert's lips curved. "Well, that depends on the legitimacy of your putative cousin in Essos. Feel free to ask your uncle about that."

She spread her hands helplessly as Renly looked at her. "I get the impression I'm not in my family's confidence in a lot of things."

"So do I," admitted Renly and they both sighed.

The king nodded. "Subject to Prince Doran's agreement, I'll approve the marriage of Renly Baratheon to Obara Martell. Now, while I'm trying to claw the Westerlands back from the brink of open rebellion, do me the favour of not showing your faces in public. I am sure you'll think of something to do..."

* * *

  
**Stannis XIV**

There was always a certain degree of discomfort in standing on the wood and iron prothesis that replaced his missing foot. Stannis had learned to ignore it for the most part. He'd also, on Aemma's quiet prodding, learned when it wasn't wise to ignore it.

The hot and muggy weather of late did the stump no favours so it was with some relief he'd withdrawn after breakfast to his study, unstrapped the prothesis and set to work on the letters from King's Landing. He'd probably need to return there once Robert arrived back from the Wall and after a fashion he could almost convince himself to look forward to cool sea breezes and overlook the other faults of the city.

Perhaps Robert would relocate court to Storm's End for a few months instead? No, not after an extended absence.

Setting aside the brief moment of whimsey, he checked the baskets that his squires sorted correspondence into. The Byrnbridge matters basket was empty, having been dealt with the day before. There were several letters in the basket for Small Council matters...

And a single letter with the royal seal set at the top of the pile.

Stannis broke the seal and unfolded the letter, scanning it once and then re-reading it carefully. With that done he sat back, profaned the names of every god he could think of and read the letter through once more, fingers tightening on the parchment until it was beginning to tear.

His squire looked around the door and then retreated when Stannis glared at him. He must have fetched Aemma because shortly afterwards she entered the room, closing the door behind her.

"Is there bad news?" she asked, taking one of the two seats facing him across the desk.

He set the letter down. "Robert wishes to decide our son's marriage. He goes so far as to blame this on Renly."

"That seems rather strange."

"He's been planning a Martell marriage for Renly for ten years. He appears to have secured it but now claims it's politically difficult and wishes to balance it by arranging Orys' marriage into another house."

"Why a Martell marriage after they murdered Lord Lannister?"

Stannis shook his head. "Perhaps it is the death of Elia Martell and children. I do not know why he feels he must do that at the expense of our family."

"Is Renly to wed Arianne then?"

"No. Oberyn's oldest girl."

"A bastard?" she said disapprovingly. "No match for a prince. Don't tell me Robert has a similar wife in mind for Orys?"

"Benjen Stark has a daughter."

"A better match," she agreed and then her eyes widened. "Oh. Oh I see."

"You see what?"

"If anything were to happen to Robert and his son, you would be heir and Orys after you. In that event, marrying him to Joanna Stark would secure you an alliance with the Starks and with the Lannisters since the girl's mother is Prince Jaime's sister. Since Jon Arryn is my uncle, the Vale would also be an ally, solidifying three of the kingdoms behind you and Orys."

"If it came to that, then it would be the duty of all seven kingdoms to support myself or Orys."

"And if all lords were in your mould, we could be sure that they would. As it is, with the prospect of your brother's heirs being half-Martell they might feel less loyalty towards Orys than Renly surely does to you. Although, you said that Robert blames this on Renly?"

"Aye. He is but a boy, yet Robert claims that he is allowing the marriage 'despite great personal reservations' to preserve the unity of House Baratheon. Allowing!"

"Well... he is almost seventeen now..." Aemma said thoughtfully. "And... oh dear, this does remind me somewhat of... I don't wish to presume."

"What do you mean?"

"Well Aerys the Mad had his son wed a Martell to reunite his blood with that of the first Daenerys Targaryen, who wed their prince under Daeron's reign. Might Robert want a Martell marriage for the same reason?"

He shook his head. "It makes no sense. Why risk a Dornish puppet-king? Aerys was mad and while my brother is sometimes foolish, he is no madman. And if he wanted that, why not seek a match for Eddard? In fact, why marry off Orys now in place of Eddard? Bind those houses to his line rather than to mine?"

They looked at each other and Stannis saw no answers in Aemma's eyes.

"Only your brother knows," she said at last. "Perhaps you should ask him?"

"And he would trust me now?"

"Play on the Baratheon unity he speaks of. How can you do his will now if you do not know his mind. If he wants your cooperation then for him to answer your questions is not unreasonable."

"He is my king. He knows that he has my obedience."

"It is not disloyalty to to seek your due for that obedience, Stannis." She came around the desk and took his hand. "I know you will allow him to arrange Orys' marriage whether he answers your questions or not. You aren't setting a price on our loyalty if you question him or if you confide to him your own desires."

"My desires?"

"Eddard Stark will take his wife and his new child north once they are safe to travel. It's no secret how uncomfortable he finds the court. Who else would be best to serve as your brother's Hand? But you quarrel with him so much, Robert may think you are unwilling and that he would be making a further imposition to ask it of you?"

"When has Robert ever hesitated to ask a task of me?"

"When have you ever asked him anything?" Her eyes flicked to the prothesis next to his chair. "You have given him so much, why should you not ask - not demand, only ask - something for yourself?"

* * *

  
**Sansa II**

She'd been told that the Sept at Winterfell was small and simple by the standards of the southern kingdoms. Father had ordered it built for mother and while it met all particulars required by the Faith of the Seven it was built in the northern style, with stones that had once been part of a tower on the same site, not marble or sandstone but plain granite.

With her mother gone, it served only a handful of visitors... but now there was to be a wedding here. A prince had found his princess (although Obara Martell, it seemed, was not precisely a princess) and they would be wed here at Winterfell. At her home and for the first time in the sept rather than in the godswood.

Aunt Lyanna had charged her with looking after her cousin Joanna and Princess Cassana. Sansa had thought this would be a chance to sit together and work on lady-like pursuits but all of the needles and thread were being reserved for preparing wedding finery and decorations.

"Father will be exercising at your armoury," Cassana suggested. "Is there somewhere we can watch?"

Sansa thought. "There's a bridge between the Great Hall and the armoury. If they're using the east yard, we can look down from it."

"Wonderful!" Cassana clapped her hands and the two of them each took one of Joanna's hands in theirs.

The bridge was covered but there were no shutters or glass on the window. Outside of the Great Hall's shelter the wind was cold against Sansa's face and she was glad of her warm woollen dress. Cassana used her free hand to pull her cloak closer around her shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" asked Robb, who was perched on the windowsill, legs dangling out the window.

"We're here to watch the King exercising."

Their cousin Rick, who was leant out of the window next to Robb turned his head. "Why would you want to do that? You're girls."

"He's my father," Cassana said simply.

"There's plenty of room for us all." Sansa put her hands on her hips the way mother might. "And don't sit there, you know father told you not to."

"It's perfectly safe."

"If you fall..."

"I'm not going to fall!" he exclaimed. Which was, of course, exactly when he slipped.

Sansa screamed. Cassana ran for the window. Rick leant over to try to grab Robb and barely managed to not to follow him.

There was a crunching noise and Robb shrieked.

Cassana yanked Rick back away from the window and looked out. "Daddy!"

Sansa lowered her hands from where she was covering her mouth - when had she done that? - and joined the princess at the window. She could see men dropping training weapons and rushing towards the bridge. Robb was still shrieking. The king. a head taller than most of the men, bulled forwards. "I've got it, Cassana. Who's up there?" He grabbed the nearest man. "You. Get Maester Luwin."

"Aye, your grace." Jory dashed under the bridge out of sight.

"Sansa, Joanna and Rickon."

She felt a tug on her skirts and looked down to see a teary eyed Joanna. Not knowing what else to do, she pulled out her handkerchief and wiped the little girl's face. Then she wiped her own tears.

"It's alright lad, be brave," she heard the king say. Then there was a tearing sounds.

She looked out and saw he was holding a hunting knife. Then she saw that he'd cut through the seams of Robb's trouser leg.

"Ser Rodrik," King Robert said calmly, as Robb's voice trailed off into sobbing. "I don't think he's bleeding seriously so we should be alright until Maester Luwin gets here. What do you have handy to hold his leg steady and carry him to his bed."

"It's broken then?"

"Looks like it to me. Good job he didn't land head first."

"Feet are heavier than the head, on account of them not being empty like the young lord's head." Rodrik looked up at them. "Lord Rickard, if your uncle has told you and Robb once not to sit on that windowsill he has told you a hundred times."

"Indeed," agreed a new voice and Maester Luwin stepped out into view. "Neither your father or mother would be happy, Prince Robb, if I wrote back and told them that they have two sons, not three."

"Three?" asked the boy, sniffing back tears.

Luwin handed him a folded letter. "Read that while I check your leg."

Robb studied the letter carefully and then tilted his head back to look up at the window. "Sansa! Sansa!"

"Yes Robb?"

"We have another little brother! His name's Howlen."

Cassana giggled at the expression on the boy's face. Sansa sniffed, this time derisively. She'd been hoping for a sister.

"Ah, named no doubt for Ser Howlen the Mad."

"Who?" asked Ser Rodrik.

The king made a discreet gesture towards Robb. "Ser Howlen the Mad and his flying machines. Surely you've heard of him, Robb? No? Well the first thing to remember about him is that he was mad, so his family - that was the Murdocks - kept him locked away. Whenever his friends needed to win him away, first they would always send Ser Templeton Peck to distract his family..."

Soon Robb was so distracted by the story that he barely noticed Luwin probing his broken leg.

* * *

  
**Varys VIII**

Varys hadn’t expected this visitor. In fact, according to his sources, the man was still in Oldtown. He admired the accomplishment of misleading his sources but it was professionally embarrassing. “Prince Oberyn, what a delight to meet after so long.”

The Dornishman, hair grown long to mask the loss of an ear, gestured dismissively. “I always meant to come and congratulate you on your recovery from the Baratheon’s dismissal. Events merely conspired to make it difficult until now.”

“Events that are no longer a concern?”

Oberyn shot him a dark look. “You’ve heard of my daughter’s marriage?”

“Indeed, I took the liberty of sending my congratulations to the happy couple. An unexpected match, but one that surely indicates Dorne isn’t far from King Robert’s regard despite certain unfortunate events.”

“I set her the task of getting close to the Baratheons. This is closer than I envisaged.”

“The concern with becoming close to someone is that they may become close to you. We like to think we are rational but really, it’s surprising how often I’ve seen men and women come up with reasoning to support decisions clearly driven by their feelings.” Varys smiled slightly. “Your brother was not concerned?”

“My brother is very concerned. Less by the marriage than by a certain confidence that Robert Baratheon chose to share with Obara.”

The eunuch tilted his head in invitation to continue.

Oberyn took two steps closer, fast steps. Half-dance, half-charge. “He knows about the boy.”

He gave the man a bland look. “The boy?”

“You know who I mean.”

“Ah. I rather hoped you might mean some other boy. You’re sure your daughter didn’t reveal his existence.”

“Obara had no need to know. She was quite baffled when Robert counted her as being fifth in succession to Dorne.”

Varys frowned. “I don’t wish to indulge in wishful thinking, however you are sure this wasn’t a slip of the tongue?”

“She queried him and he told her to ask Doran about a supposed cousin in Essos.”

That wasn’t something that could be mistaken. Doran was notably faithful to his estranged wife and while she was from Essos, all of their children had remained with him in Dorne. A supposed cousin of Obara in Essos could only mean Jon Connington's ward, their future Aegon Targaryen.

Oberyn stepped closer and Varys recognised his intent. To threaten, to menace, and possibly – given his disposition – to murder. “How did he learn of him, old friend?”

“A good question.” He kept his tone mild, treating it as a merely intellectual matter while devoting a small portion of his thoughts to how he might avoid a close encounter with... a dagger seemed most likely. Poisoned, almost certainly. “I don’t know the boy’s whereabouts myself, since it would be entirely too easy for Robert to lay hands on me. Still, if he gave no indication of location then he...”

His mind went back to the last time he saw Robert Baratheon and he couldn’t help the slight flicker of shock as he added up the facts.

“Share your thoughts,” Oberyn said silkily.

Varys very carefully walked to the nearest chair. “Ten years. He’s known about the boy all this time.”

“Impossible. He’d have killed him by now.”

He uncapped a flagon and poured himself a gobletful. “I feel the need for a medicinal. Join me.”

Oberyn took the flagon, sniffed and then poured himself a goblet. He didn’t drink though.

“When I left King’s Landing, the king gave me a reward for my loyal service to King Aerys and later to himself. The egg of a dragon.”

“A princely reward, but what of it?”

“The boy shares a name with several Targaryen kings. Most recently with Robert’s own great-grandfather.”

“Aegon the Unlikely, yes. Your point?”

“When Aegon Targaryen was a boy he was far from the line of succession.” Varys sipped again and then put down his goblet. “He somewhat infamously squired to a mere hedgeknight and was known, I am told, by a more humble sobriquet. Egg.”

“Egg. Then the egg was...”

“A hint. A joke at my expense. Very possibly a threat. Or a promise.”

Oberyn looked at his own goblet and then looked up. “Connington is the one with the boy. If he’s betrayed us...”

“I would have said that Jon Connington would be the last man to ever betray Rhaegar’s son to the man who killed the prince.”

“And yet his House’s fortunes are on the rise. One of the usurper’s daughters to sit in Griffin’s Roost as its lady. If that was his price...”

“A price for what?” Varys considered and then grimaced. “It’s possible, of course, that the boy is no longer in Essos. That he is in Baratheon hands. It’s suddenly inconvenient that I have no easy way to know that.”

Oberyn sat back in the chair, stared at the wall behind Varys for a moment and then began to laugh.

“You seem to have recovered your humour, my friend.”

“I would like to say that I’m not laughing at you, but the most I can truthfully say is that I understand your chagrin. I felt much the same when I realised I was cheated out of all my chances at revenge. Aerys, Rhaegar, Tywin, Gregor and Lorch, all dead and I had no hand in it.”

Varys nodded. Tywin was the last of the five to have died. Aerys had been killed by Jaime Lannister, Rhaegar by Robert Baratheon, Gregor shot by Bolton’s city watch and Amory Lorch had ‘slipped’ off the Wall a few years ago. Varys had the name of the brother who had accepted some gold to see to that, in case he ever needed it. “I have heard some rumours that certain comments were made to Tywin’s brother and sons.”

The prince made a dismissive gesture. “There’d be no satisfaction to it. Perhaps if Tywin was alive, to repay him like that. Besides, I had my chance at Jaime Lannister.” He touched where he’d once had an ear. “It would be ill-done to slay him when he showed more gallantry than his father ever did.”

“That’s surprisingly forgiving of you.”

“What should I forgive him for? We don’t choose our fathers and if he hadn’t killed Aerys then the madman would have burned himself to death. I still wanted to kill Aerys myself though but keeping the young Lannister nervous is revenge enough there.” He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Taking the boy and using him against us would be just like Baratheon. Could Dayne find him?”

“Lord Connington didn’t take Ser Arthur into his confidence.” Varys frowned. Arthur Dayne was now head of his own small company of sellswords... although since the company had yet to leave the limits of Pentos, having been hired to provide guards for the city the name of sellsword fit poorly on them. Pentos was forbidden by treaty with Braavos from maintaining an army. But then, they were similarly forbidden from practising slavery. "And Dayne may have drifted a little away from our group in any case."

Oberyn shook his head. "Well if it wasn't difficult, I wouldn't be needed. I'll find him and if he has betrayed us then at least I get to kill someone."

He had a disturbing smile, Varys decided. "Well please keep an eye out for Prince Viserys on your travels. He seems to be doing well, he may be ready for more of a part in Westeros' future than I expected."


	25. Chapter 25

**Olenna X**

Olenna checked the face of the page delivering her refreshments and recognised him as one of the Rowan boys. Ever since Tywin Lannister's death four years ago everyone had made a point of bringing their own pages and checking who they accepted food from. It would take a long time to forget the Lion of Casterly Rock dying over weeks, surrounded by the great and occasionally even the good of all of Westeros.

"The Easterland stands are more crowded this year," noted Margaery from her seat beside her grandmother.

"Yes. It seems that more of the Stormland lords and knights are attending. Renly's marriage didn't please many of them."

"Because they wanted him to marry one of their daughters?"

"That and because they're no fonder of the Dornish than our southern lords are." Olenna sipped from her glass. The juice of fruits normally imported from the Summer Isle, although in this case they came from a glass garden near Storm's End. "Of course, now Cassana is old enough for an engagement to be discussed they have more interest in reminding him of their loyalty."

Below them more than two score knights were forming up in a circle for the melee. Colours from dozens of Houses were present, as well as the plainer colours of hedge knights and even the occasional sellsword. Two knights, wearing the colours of House Tyrell and House Tully raised their weapons in salute towards the Tyrell box.

Margaery waved back although it wasn't clear if it was to her brother or to her betrothed.

"Hmm. If he takes an injury that might set back the marriage."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Then his father and my father will make his life one of hell. King Robert might do the same, he seems quite pleased by the match."

"It's no deep love of either of our houses," Olenna told her. She hadn't spent enough time with her grand-daughter to be sure if she had more sense than her mother. Alerie Hightower wasn't notably any more sensible than her husband. "It's more a desperation to have Edmure marry someone - anyone - and continue the Tully line. Autumn isn't upon us yet but it can't be far off so he'd prefer not to have one of the most fertile kingdoms fall into civil war."

"Are the Riverlands that unstable?"

"Hoster Tully barely has heir and spare within the Tully name. The Blackfish is part of the Royal Guards and likely to remain that way, so no successors there. If Edmure doesn't put children in your belly, the next in succession to Riverrun will be the Starks. Young Robb Stark has the Tully looks but none of Catelyn's children are known in the Riverlands. Meanwhile, Walder Frey is ambitious and disliked, Tytos Blackwood remembers that his ancestors ruled the rivers and Jonos Bracken would die before he bends the knee to a Blackwood. Jason Mallister's position is rising with the western sea trade, but for that reason the Freys consider him a threat."

Margaery smiled. "It sounds just like the Reach."

"In all the bad ways. The Tullys need a strong hand as Hoster grows older. Edmure doesn't show promise in that area."

Another horn blew and the warriors in the arena shouted as they fell on each other. Foolishness, but a very common one. Olenna's eyes were no longer as sharp as they had once been but she could see that Loras and Edmure were fighting back to back. "Well, he recognises an alliance has merit. How many of those fighting alone remain, girl?"

"Few," Margaery admitted. "Oh! Ronnet Connington is down."

"Fool boy. Domeric Bolton dominated the jousts so Connington thinks he has to excel in the melee. Young Mya will have words for him on that topic."

"I like her, although she's rather blunt."

"Honesty isn't always a virtue. But she has sense, yes. Down at Griffin's Roost she'll do well. Cultivate Bella first though, she's better suited as a friend at court. Domeric Bolton would rise on his father's patronage even if he wasn't making his name in the joust. They'll be a formidable couple."

"Won't they be returning to the North?"

"There's no jousting in the North and little politics. No, I see them as staying south. The Dreadfort is a dreary place and the Boltons have few allies north of the Neck."

There was an outcry below and Olenna saw that Margaery's goodbrother had fallen to a fighter wearing the suns and crescents of Tarth. Loras had defeated his own foe but now he and the Tarth warrior were the only ones still standing. Both were weary and it showed as Loras' axe and his opponent's morning-star were swung with more abandon than art.

"Loras," hissed Margaery. "Up, Highgarden!" she called down to the two, voice lost amongt the others. "Who is he fighting? I thought Lord Tarth had no sons."

"He has a daughter," Olenna replied thoughtfully. "Little courted for all the wealth of Evenstar Hall. Another dynastic problem for His Grace, since the Tarths are significant - and loyal - bannermen."

There was a crash from below as the two knights collided and, weapons dropped either accidentally or on purpose, began to grapple with each other. Tabards tore and were rubbed in the dust until one, at last, managed to wrestle the other's visor open and...

There was a pained noise and the apparent victor rolled over, dropping the dagger he'd been about to menace his opponent with. Struggling upright, the fallen knight - the Tarth - planted a firm kick to Loras' helmet before a herald rushed out and pulled them away.

"But Loras had him! Uh, her?" Margaery said.

The arena's maester - a permanent appointment - was already heading efforts to recover and treat the other fallen but two stretcher-bearers began helping Loras off the sand.

"I'm hardly an armsmaster, Margaery. If I had to guess, I suppose some of his armour came loose in that rolling around they did." She smirked. "That might be the closest Brienne of Tarth has ever come to having a man in her bed."

Then trumpets rang out and the arena went quiet, audience all turning towards the royal box. Wearing his crown, Robert Baratheon stepped out onto the sand. It wasn't unexpected for him to do this for only three of the seven open places had been decided thus far, but the question was... who had he come for? He did not always select the victor in these contests, for martial excellence alone was not enough to catch his eye.

"Surely not?" murmured Margaery. "A woman."

"Talent," Olenna said crushingly, "Is where you find it."

The girl flushed.

Yet in the end she was somewhat vindicated, for the king had not come for one but two. Before the eyes of tens of thousands, including many of the greatest lords in Westeros, Brienne of Tarth and Loras Tyrell knelt (with a wince by Loras) and pledged themselves to seven years of service in the Royal Guards of House Baratheon.

* * *

  
**Stannis XV**

Until a few years ago, Stannis wouldn't have believed how much his chair in the Small Council chamber made his back and rear hurt. Not because it was uncomfortable - Robert had spent significant amounts of gold on having the most comfortable seats possible in Stag Tower - but because he spent so much time here in the chair.

He'd been part of the Small Council for almost half his life. But as Master of Ships, of Coins and of Law he'd had responsibilities that took him away. Now, if he wasn't meeting with the Small Council or the King, he was meeting someone else... or reading letters.

So many letters and about so little.

Why would anyone write letters about such trivialities?

It was the icing on the cake that Robert, it turned out, read faster than he did. When he was in the Crown, Robert read almost everything he did, and it took him much less time. If it wasn't for his miserable handwriting, Stannis wouldn't have believed him to be the same boy who had to be all but beaten to attend letters with the Maester.

"While the reports from the rangers indicate Wildling numbers are higher than at any point in recorded memory, there hasn't been any sign that they're massing for an attempt to storm the wall." Mance Rayder had fit into the court like a hand into a glove, which made Stannis suspicious. How did a wildling-born raised at the Wall become such a courtier? Aemma had told him that irresponsible young women were even likening his music to Rhaegar Targaryen's harp-playing.

"On some levels a lack of invasion is satisfying." Robert didn't seem to have his heart in that statement. Then again, if there was an invasion, then he'd have an excuse to run off North to his friend Ned and break heads with his hammer. "On the other, we've already had to stop an impromptu melee between the Reachmen and the Westerlanders from turning into a petty war. I think the boys are getting bored up there."

"It would not be regrettable if the Wildlings were to make an attack."

"It's almost as if they don't want to be slaughtered for your convenience," Mance told Lord Bolton.

The Master of Laws nodded in his quiet way. "Indeed."

"We don't have the information to know what's happening there." Olenna Tyrell seemed to find the disagreement amusing. "If the maps of the far north are correct then rangings have only covered a small portion of it. The forests could hide an immense army easily." She unrolled a map. "And we have almost no idea what could be happening in the Frostfangs or the lands west of them."

"No one who goes there returns."

"A suspicious fact," she replied.

"Then a new ranging is in order," Stannis noted. "Cool some of the heads on the Wall by marching them further north. The Milkwater is a considerable river. Could we send ships up it, Ser Davos?"

"I've never been there myself but smaller ships, perhaps."

"Let's take the opportunity to map the river then, decent charts could save us a lot of trouble if for any reason we ever need to send ships up there more seriously. Ask for volunteers from the wall and..." Robert looked over at Mance. "I'd like you to go with them. I'll send Lord Commander Mormont a letter asking for some rangers to act as guides. I have some ideas how we can make use of the Wildling numbers - even if they aren't going to throw themselves on the obsidian daggers I've been sending north."

Mance looked grim at the thought. Stannis could almost sympathise. Robert's description of the wall was enough to make his own blood run cold. But if Mance didn't want to spend the rest of his life there he shouldn't have taken the oath. "I have to wonder what you have in mind there. The wildlings tend to hold those south of the Wall in contempt."

Robert looked around the chamber. "This is something I'm only going to share with those who need to know. Mance will be allowed to disclose it in the course of his mission and all others only when it's absolutely necessary. And I will make that decision, not you. Even now I'm going to tell you the bare minimum."

He waited until there were nods. It wasn't the first time Robert had declared something would be shared only with those who he felt needed to know. Olenna Tyrell had supported the idea and even Stafford Lannister would grudgingly admit that it was an effective way of keeping secrets from being circulated: no one could tell what they didn't need to know.

"I suspect that the more sensible wildling leaders have realised that next winter is likely to be brutal. We could be looking at ten years before spring... and there's still no sign of autumn!" Robert sat back. "I'm therefore going to offer such leaders transport with their people to more southerly lands."

Roose Bolton blinked. "Where, precisely?"

The king smiled. "That's need to know, Lord Bolton. I assure you, I will tell you when you need to know. But this is not something that can be known ahead of time. Every lord in the North and half the lords south of the Neck would be convinced I was going to foist the Wildlings on them."

Stannis cleared his throat. "I appreciate that you may have a masterstroke in mind, but as the Hand..."

Robert nodded. "Quite right. If anything happens to me, you'll need to know enough to carry on." He looked around the table. "If there's no other business today, I'll brief my brother and Mance in private."

As Stannis watched the others leave he realised he'd condemned himself to more time sat down in a meeting. At least it wasn't a letter.

* * *

  
**Viserys X**

The Windblown were marching. Viserys could feel the sun against his back, through his cloak and through his armour. He'd loosened the ties of his wargear as far as he dared. Not that he expected attack, they marched away from war not towards it, but carelessness could kill and the Tattered Prince kept close discipline.

The Usurper would have done the same. He might have made a good sellsword captain. Viserys thought it might have been better for House Targaryen if he had done that. Better for all others...? He shrugged. Here in Essos his name was recognised for three things: dragons, Westeros and the madness of his father.

He'd been to Volantis with the Windblown and his ancestry was recognised to let him into the Inner City, where only those with the blood of Valyria were allowed... where he was mocked as scion of a fallen house. A lineage tainted by outsider blood. His Blackwood great-grandmother. His Dayne great-grandmother. His Martell great-great-grandmother.

Aerys' madness they blamed on that blood. And also the death of Aerys' grandfather at Summerhall, in fire with his elder son and many others. Impurity, they said.

House Targaryen had ruled a continent, while the Volanteans lurked in their city ward!

Ah, they had said. But what do you rule now?

If he hadn't spent years choking down his anger in the face of the Usurper, he thought he might have killed every one of them he could reach. And then he would have died and with him all hopes for House Targaryen. So he had laughed. 'Do not judge a man until all his deeds are done', he had said and walked away.

Another horse jostled against his and stirred him back to the road.

"Thinking dark thoughts?" asked Bronn. The lowborn swordsman had been with the company longer than Viserys and alone of the Tattered Prince's lieutenants he hadn't shown resentment at the swift rise of the newcomer. That might be one of the reasons that he was perhaps the only man granted more responsibility in the company than Viserys. The other reasons were his resourcefulness, his sanguine temprement and his deadly sword arm.

"Volantis."

"Ah. A very wealthy city. They paid us well."

"We served them well."

"Aye. And now we ride away, those of us who aren't walking."

"The romance of the road," Viserys said and as both men laughed, he lifted his wineskin from where it hung off his saddlebow. He offered it to Bronn first, who took a measured swig before returning it.

"Better not drink too much," the older man warned. "It's a long road up the Rhoyne to Braavos."

"Is that where we're going?" Their commander had been cagey about the new contract, although he'd paid the men in full so they were ready enough to follow him north.

"The company coffers had an infusion of fresh coin." Bronn tapped his nose. "The silver's the usual mix - coins minted everywhere from Qohor to King's Landing - but the gold... the gold has the Sealord's face. Ferrego Antaryon's face so it's been minted in the last few years. Who else has that much Braavosi gold?"

"Anyone who took a loan from the Iron Bank?" suggested Viserys. Although it was a fair point. The Iron Bank had currency from half the world and generally loaned out coin approrpriate to wherever the borrower would be spending them. It cut down arguements about the weighting and exact value of the coin loaned.

Bronn chuckled. "Well, I doubt we'll be heading across the Narrow Sea to fortify the wall, although your cousin seems to be hiring sellswords where he can to bolster the numbers there."

Viserys shook his head. "I can't see him getting much interest in that. I never went further north than the Neck and that was bad enough. The rest of the North must be worse."

"The Company of the Rose got an offer but it seems to mostly be individuals rather than entire companies taking him up on the offer."

"Don't tell me that the Company went back to the North?"

"No, they turned it down. I think Norvos made a better offer."

Viserys nodded. They'd fought alongside the Company of the Rose once and he'd gone drinking with a few of their men. It had been almost three hundred years now since their ancestors had left Westeros rather than follow Torrhen Stark's example in bending the knee to Aegon the Conquerer. Even now, some of them had been unwilling to drink with a descendant of Aegon.

"He's probably having trouble getting the lords to send their sons up north, even if it's just for a year or two. The first year or two after his Great Council it might have worked, but no Wilding invasion has appeared and now it looks more like hostage taking. Who would dare cause trouble if a good portion of their sons and sworn-swords are at the far end of Westeros and surrounded by men of the other kingdoms?"

"Aye, that's clever. Banking up trouble for another day."

"He is clever, which is why it surprises me. That and Renly's marriage. Too many of Robert's kin are wed to those he's swaying to his side and not enough to those who already supported him." Viserys realised he was still holding the wine and secured it to his saddle again.

"Well that's good for you. Remember me when you're back on your family's throne."

"My family's throne is several dozen breastplates now." He shot Bronn a tight smile. "But I promise to remember my good friend Bronn, drinker of my wine and... what else have you done for me lately?"

"Shown you where you were over-extending your sword-arm?"

Viserys glared at him and rubbed the arm in question. "Thank you for reminding me."

* * *

  
**Barristan VII**

Barristan had visited the Wall a few years ago, with the first Northern levy to reinforce the forts. He'd never looked at the Wall from this angle though.

The Milkwater flowed into the Bay of Ice through a deep gorge that anchored the western end of the Wall. The Shadow Tower, one of the few forts that hadn't been abandoned by the Night's Watch, looked down on the gorge but there was one more fort to the west, linked to the Wall by a terrifyingly high and narrow bridge.

Westwatch-by-the-Bridge was manned entirely by the King's Men and its quays were busier than they had been in years, a dozen Ironborn-styled longships gathered to carry the ranging north. The vessels' shallow keels would be an asset in the river-waters.

"You can't think that you can get a ship this size up the river," Mance remonstrated.

Tyrion Lannister, wrapped in a fine and very warm looking cloak, laughed. "I have a keen eye for heights and depths, Master Ranger. The Silence is my treasure and I don't want to wreck her. There are two longships here that belong to House Lannister and I'll be taking command of one."

Barristan tugged on his own cloak. The years had winnowed away flesh from his frame, enough that he could get another layer of stout wool beneath his armour to add to the fur lining Ashara had sewn into his cloak. "If the maps we have are right then the Milkwater reaches far into the north of the Frostfang mountains. Do you think it's navigable so far north?"

"I doubt it," Mance admitted. "But there are Wildling tribes along the east bank at least as far north as the mountains and they use coracles and canoes for fishing and hunting. I'm not sure we can get so far with longships but if we can I'll be more than satisfied."

"Are you sure about going, Ser Barristan?" The dwarf looked over at him. "Coming north has turned all your hair white, who knows what effect going beyond the Wall will have."

He gave the Lannister a grim look. "There are no whores or wine, does that deter you?"

"I think I can manage for a reasonable time without those."

Barristan smiled thinly as he saw the younger man pose dramatically in much the same way his son Duncan would when he was playing at being Aemon the Dragonknight, or Duncan the Tall... or much to his and Ashara's amusement, Barristan the Bold. It wasn't clear to them if their son knew that the last knight was the same man he called father.

"Then I'll ask you to trust me not to collapse into senility for the same length of time, Ser Tyrion."

"It's a bargain!" Tyrion offered up his hand and Barristan accepted it.

"I'm glad we've got that sorted," said Mance. "Ser Tyrion, please make sure your personal gear is no more than you can carry yourself. This is going to be a ranging, not a pleasure trip. If the ships have to be abandoned we'll have to walk back so we'll have to leave anything we can't carry behind. Don't take anything you can't bear to leave."

Tyrion nodded. "I have a pack for the essentials and a sea-chest for anything that would be useful but that can be left behind if the ships aren't available."

"You've done this before?"

"Not in the North, but I've been to Old Valyria and as far east as Asshai. And anyone who's been through a storm at sea knows what it's like when everything around you is trying to kill you."

"That's a good start." Mance looked him over. "Oh, and we'll raid your ship's rope-locker before we leave. A few hundred feet of rope can save more lives than all the armour in the world."

Barristan thought. "Safety lines?"

"Among other things. Dire wolves and shadow cats don't climb trees so well. Tying yourself to the upper branches of something they can't push over might save your life."

It had been a long time since he'd climbed a tree. Still, he supposed he'd be motivated. "How about more human threats?"

"There's no one rule that works for all Wildlings. I'm told the mountain clans of the Vale are the most like them but I've not met them. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of tribes and each has their own ways and customs. Some are nomadic, some have strongholds they claim to have ruled since the end of the Long Night. None of them have much time for lords or knights."

"Or for the Night's Watch?"

"Or for the Night's Watch," agreed Mance. "Our goal is to talk to them while their first reaction is likely to be attempts to kill us. We'll have to expect ambushes and possibly running battles along the riverbanks. I'll be looking to you, Lord Barristan to keep us alive and to keep the knights with us from running wild."

"I think I can manage that."

"And you, Ser Tyrion, will be helping me with any negotiations. I'm told you have a swift wit - and of course, your reputation as the Crowslayer will be of value."

"I hadn't realised my reputation stood so tall in these lands."

"The Ironborn raid the coasts north of the wall too. Euron Greyjoy has no friends here."

Tyrion paused. "So when we talk to them, what are we supposed to offer them? The Iron Islands? My brother would probably hand Pyke and Saltcliffe over but we'd have another bunch of sea-raiders for our children to fight."

Mance shrugged. "Short of exterminating them, wherever they go they'll likely be a problem for the future. His Grace, King Robert, is of the opinion that the problems of next summer can be looked at once we're sure of getting through the winter."


	26. Chapter 26

**Cassana III**

"I'm not sure why you brought her along?" Uncle Stannis didn't quite glance at Cassana pointedly as he followed father up the steps from the Stag Tower.

At the very top of the Crown of Westeros there was a chamber - not tall enough to call a tower in its own right - on top of the dome. Most of the roof was curved, making it hard to reach except from the Stag Tower, where steps had been carved into the dome.

Father didn't look back. "There are two reasons I've brought Cassana along, Stannis. Firstly for the same reason I'm bringing you: continuity."

"And secondly?"

He paused a second, looked back and winked at her. "There's a saying I came across - not a common saying these days - that if you have a plan, it's worth having a child look at it to see if they can see any problems."

"Why a child?"

"Firstly, because they're unlikely to 'tactfully' pretend they didn't see a problem in their lord's plans. And secondly, how many times have you seen someone come up with a 'oh so clever' idea and thought that a child would have seen the obvious flaw?"

Uncle Stannis snorted.

"Uh, but why am I here, Your Grace?" asked Daenerys politely.

"Ah, this is all about you. Don't worry, it's not a new variation of the Maidenvault." Taking a key from a chain around his neck, father unlocked the door and then stepped inside. When Cassana followed, she found the room inside was circular and made up the entirety of the structure. There were chests stacked around the circular walls and in the centre, around a table which bore a single candelabra, several Essosi couches.

"Please, sit." Father waved them to the couches and opened one of the chests, pulling out a heavy book bound in black leather... no, it wasn't leather. Not quite...

"That's dragonskin," Daenerys said in surprise.

He nodded and made an approving noise. "One of Ser Gerion and Ser Tyrion's gifts to me from Old Valyria." Setting them on the table he turned back and lifted the entire chest down so he could get at the one below. This one needed a key, yet another one from the chain around his neck.

Cassana's uncle hissed as Robert lifted the contents. "It's a dragon's egg."

"Aye." It was red, not the colour of blood but more of an orange, Cassana thought. Her father cradled it in both hands - it was the size of a small cat - and placed it in Daenerys' lap.

The girl cupped her own hands around it and for a moment Cassana felt jealous of her for the chance to touch something like that.

With a sigh, Robert sat opposite her. "A few years before I was born, our mutual great-grandfather took seven dragon eggs to Summerhall. Exactly what was done... well, if anyone knows then they aren't telling. He attempted some sorcery to hatch them. Some say that wildfire was used. Either way, the fires gutted the castle and many died. Aegon, his eldest son, his oldest friend... your mother was there. She gave birth to your eldest brother in the ashes."

"I know. Viserys told me." Daenerys didn't take her eyes off the egg.

"Dragons haven't been seen in more than a hundred years. Dreams of them have led many a Targaryen to their deaths. Some of them as a tool - a dragon would be a potent means for Viserys if he wanted to dethrone me. Some as a symbol. Ancient Valyria. Ancient magic." He touched the book. "My high Valyrian isn't perfect but I've been studying this book for a few years. If I understand it correctly, even they didn't fully understand the methods of hatching Dragons."

"Who would want a dragon?" asked Stannis. "It's not as if you need one."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes."

He looked at Cassana. "Do you think we need dragons, Cassana?"

She hesitated. What did he want her to say? "Are you sure we could hatch one?"

Father shook his head. "Daenerys has the best chance of anyone I can think of, but no, I'm not sure. The book describes how the ancient Valyrians hatched there and it's a practise the Targaryens have followed for centuries by placing eggs in the cradles of their princes and princesses... it was never an entirely reliable process and the eggs in Rhaegar's and Viserys' cradles didn't hatch. But no dragon egg was in your cradle, Daenerys. And both of your parents were the result of a Targaryen wedding Targaryen. If any child could hatch an egg, it's you - for by my count the daughters hatched eggs more often than their brothers."

"You could have left an egg in my cradle if you chose."

"I could," father agreed. "And who would have ridden it? Your brother, young and angry and without wisdom to guide it, much less himself."

"I don't think we need dragons, father."

"And I already know your opinion, brother." He sat back and smiled. "Well, as it happens, I don't think we need dragons either... yet."

"Then why bring us here. Why show us this?"

"Because that's subject to change. When Ser Tyrion came back from his second voyage east he brought me tales and rumours from all along the Summer Sea and the Jade Sea. Everywhere from Volantis to Asshai, there are cults spouting prophecies of dark days. And we're looking at a winter that might be worse than recorded history, something right out of the darkest of the old legends of the First Men."

Father reached out and took the egg from Daenerys. She didn't resist, but nor did she take her hands off it until it was out of reach. "I hope it's nothing, but I won't rely on hope." He locked the chest once the egg was inside it, then handed the keychain to Cassana.

"If we need a dragon," he said to her, "And if I'm not here, your uncle will have control of access to this room. You will have the only keys to the door and to the chests. And Daenerys has the best chance of us all of hatching the egg. I strongly suggest you work on your High Valyrian... and we might all pray that we never need to talk about this again."

* * *

  
**Barristan VIII**

"It was quiet last night."

Tyrion Lannister nodded and went back to clipping his beard, using a polished bronze mirror to check the shape of his facial hair. It was too cold to shave unless you boiled the water and there were more pressing uses for fires, but the dwarf insisted on remaining dapper. "That's an ominous thing to say, Lord Barristan."

"It felt ominous. Wolves howling, owls hooting... That's normal. But last night even the tree branches seemed subdued."

The dwarf set aside his scissors and rubbed his whiskered jaw. "Aye. And I've heard naught from the shores since dawn - save our own men."

"Then you agree?"

"I'm not as woodswise as our valiant leader but it seems to me that if the beasts are silent it's because they aren't here. And if they aren't, what is?"

"Wildlings?" Barristan reflexively checked that his sword was still loose in the scabbard. The blade slipped an inch free as smooth as silk and he released his hold.

"Or snarks and grumkins. Which may be just as hazardous."

They'd pulled the longships up on a shingle beach against the west bank of the Milkwater. Even rowing and sailing when the wind was from the south they made slow progress up the river. Rayder claimed they could walk faster, but the longships allowed the party to carry vastly more supplies than men afoot. The peaks of the Frost Fangs seemed no closer but there were hills Barristan guessed as foothills of the range to both sides.

"I don't believe in ghosts," he said.

"Well they say the forests here are haunted, but I doubt ghosts." Tyrion stretched and his own hand went to a long dagger at his belt. "But there are things beside ghosts that haunt."

"Giants? Children of the Forest? Myths from the old days."

"Giants still exist." Mance Rayder had joined them, feet silent on the deck. "A few tribes, far to the north. The Children of the Forest I'm less sure of, but they existed once. The trees still bear their marks in places east of here."

"Marks on trees?"

"Aye. Weirwood trees live longer than the most ancient oaks. Don't take the pines here by the river for what the deeper forests are like." Mance raised his voice. "Everyone aboard the ships. We move on."

There was a bustle as those men ashore gathered their gear.

"Last night..." Barristan said cautiously.

"I heard." The ranger looked over at him. "If there's something out there, best meet them with some water between us and the shore."

Yet as the oars to the rear of the longships paddled and men pushed against the bows, the vessels stubbornly failed to leave the shingle.

Ser Tyrion had his crew stop pushing and dig down around the prow of his longship. "It's ice!" he exclaimed.

"Well break it!" called the ranger in charge of the next ship along. Ser Alliser was from a Crownlands house and had chosen the Wall over bending his knee to King Robert. Some blamed his disposition on the cold of his exile but as far as Barristan could remember, he'd always been like a grumpy badger.

"What a wonderful idea, why didn't I think of that?" the Lannister replied sweetly. He nodded to one of his men, who brought a pick down on the ice.

"If you'd encountered this before," Barristan said quietly, "You'd have warned us before we beached."

Mance nodded grimly. "I've never taken ships up the Milkywater, but I've not heard of anything like this, even from wildling clans that use the river."

Barristan raised his voice. "Send out pickets! Three men per ship, up to the tree line but not out of sight of the ships. And have archers ready on deck!"

There were calls of acknowledgement from the other ship and Barristan jumped down onto the beach to be one of his ship's pickets. Whatever was hiding in the forest, he wanted to see it. As he straightened, Tyrion gestured for him to come closer. There was no merriment in the dwarf's eyes.

"The ice is barely flaking when the picks hit it. We're making a little progress but this will be slow."

A shiver went down his spine. "That's strong ice."

"Yes." The Crowslayer had two daggers at his belt now, his usual long knife and a short one with the distinctive hilt of those King Robert gifted to those at the wall. "The magi of Asshai speak of blood and fire and shadow. I rather wish they'd had something to say on the topic of ice."

"Did they anything about cold steel."

"Only as to dragonsteel. Valyrian, that is to say."

Barristan nodded and walked towards the trees. As the previous night it was eerily quiet. No birds. No animal noises. Only the wind - and that barely strong enough to stir the thinnest pine branches - and the sound of picks working at the ice and men swearing.

Even when the sun was half-way to its height - as high as it got this far north - the ships weren't free. Barristan rotated the pickets and he could hear the men muttering at how long it was taking to break the ice. Someone had even suggested fire, Mance advised, although that would likely burn the ships as well, making the entire exercise pointless.

"The sky's clear," Barristan noted.

"Aye, we'll likely have a frozen night." And if the ships weren't freed before then the ice would be renewed. Mance shook his head. "If it comes to that, we'll keep fires going all night and leave the ships. Build a few small boats to get a report south to the wall and continue on foot."

Barristan nodded. "I'll have the men bring a tree or two down for the fires. If we don't need it, at least the men are kept busy."

Green wood would make for a smokey fire, but it was better than no fire and it wasn't the first time that they'd done this so a party was assembled in short order to bring down one of the pines upstream of the ships and reduce it to conveniently sized sections of firewood.

The Wildlings swarmed them over almost before they could fight back.

One moment the treeline was silent and the next more than a dozen men in furs came out of the shadows. There were no war cries and the only shouts of pain came from the woodcutters and the two nearest pickets as bronze weapons - and even stone weapons - fell upon them.

Barristan had his sword out and, before the last of the woodcutters fell, he was running up stream and shouting for the men to rally on him. As far as he could tell, not one of the wildlings had fallen, and every one of the men he'd sent out was on the ground.

Fortunately the archers hadn't let their guard down and as the wildlings charged - still silently - across the beach, the leaders were struck by arrows, shafts jutting out of their furs. It didn't seem to slow them down. To his surprise, nor had the ones that jutted out of flesh.

And still they said nothing.

The first one Barristan reached fought with force, but no art. He slapped the man's axe aside with his buckler and side-stepped to half-sever the arm holding that arm with his sword.

No shout of pain and despite the depth of the wound blood barely trickled from it. Barristan withdrew his sword and then smashed the guard against the man's throat, staggering him. He saw that the blood on his blade was black and congealed.

Another of the wildlings moved in on his flank but Alliser Thorne stepped up and blocked the man, who bore an iron axe - one of the wood cutters' wood axes, not a proper battle axe. The brother parried, then thrust. His sword ripped into the wildling below the ribs, twisted and then tore out.

Barristan had rarely seen a better executed gutting. It was the ideal opportunity, an unarmoured and unskilled opponent. The wound would be agonising and demoralise the other wildlings. But the expected screams, the expected spilling entrails, did not result. Instead, the wildling almost brained Ser Alliser with his axe.

"Who are these people?" he exclaimed as he stepped back.

A crossbow bolt snapped past his head and buried itself in the wilding's face. This also didn't stop them.

"What are they?" Barristan grunted, yet another arriving. There weren't many of them, but an increasing number of the men were on the ground and if the wildlings didn't cry out, his own wounded did. It was an all too familiar sound from scores of battlefields.

"Ser Barristan!"

He grabbed Thorne's shoulder and backed up a step before looking back. As he thought, that Westerland voice was Tyrion Lannister's. The half-man had thrown aside a crossbow and was advancing with a burning brand. The dwarf certainly wasn't without courage - or sense, since he handed it to Barristan rather than trying to wield the flaming torch as a weapon himself.

Dropping his buckler, he accepted the new weapon and thrust it in the face of the first wildling. Hair and beard caught flame, blue eyes burst. Then the flesh ignited and the man - or was it even a man - fell, burning as brightly as an oil lamp.

"Fire kills them!" he shouted.

"Beware the right!" called out the Lannister and Barristan glanced that way. More furred, blue-eyed men - and women - were emerging from the trees and outflanking the line of men.

The three of them put their backs together, an action followed by other rangers, knights and men at arms as the line collapsed. Barristan saw Mance Rayder pulling the men along the shore back towards the ships. The bulwarks might provide some useful fortification for those who could reach them.

Barristan slashed the throat of the wildling who was coming at him, kicking it away, no longer surprised that the woman (beneath her cloak of fur she was bare bodied, so he could tell) did not die.

"It's almost like they're..." There was a gasp of breath from behind him and he turned to see a wilding on top of Tyrion Lannister, yet as he looked, the struggle ended and the shaggy man ceased to move. Stepping back he protected the little Lannister as he wriggled free.

Rather than stand, Tyrion reached over and grabbed the dagger in Barristan's own boot, then rolled over and drove it into the woman's calf.

She fell, as silent as she had fought. As silent as the grave.

"There's something wrong with the world when naked women throw themselves at you, Ser Barristan," Tyrion gasped out. Then he pulled himself to his knees. "Dragonglass! Use your daggers, use the king's daggers!" he screamed out at the top of his voice.

Some women appreciate experience, Barristan thought as he recovered his purloined dagger.

* * *

  
**Ned XV**

He'd never come to enjoy this part of his responsibilities as Prince of the North but there were days he felt more confident than others that he was doing the right thing. That he was making the North a better place.

The man who was brought out of the cells was well dressed, although his garb had suffered the natural effects of several weeks of confinement. His beard had grown out but he'd been given water to clean himself.

"You've heard from my father then, Prince Stark?" he asked, confident despite his predicament.

Ned crossed his arms. "Lord Bolton has written to me, yes."

The prisoner shook his manacles in question.

He looked at the man in contempt. "The Lord of Dreadfort has confirmed that he believes you to be his natural-born son. He has further stated his regrets that he cannot be here to see justice done."

Pale eyes that were very much like those Ned had seen before in Roose Bolton's face went wide.

"Bring him," Ned ordered the guards.

The boys were already mounted. His sons Robb and Crejon, along with Rickard and Brandon. Ned mounted his own horse and checked Ice was secured to his scabbard.

"Let's not be hasty." The prisoner smiled in what Ned recognised as something intended to be winning. "I know things that you'd be interested in."

Ned looked at the guards. "Make sure he's secured to the horse and that the horse is secured to yours. And keep him away from the boys."

The men pulled the prisoner to the horse, an aged gelding that rarely had the energy to canter, much less gallop. The saddle was a special one kept aside for these occasions. Ramsay Snow's manacles were chained to the saddlehorn and another chain was run beneath the horse's belly. The guards wrestled the prisoner's boots off and secured the chains around his ankles. He wouldn't have far to walk now, so boots weren't going to be a requirement.

"Don't ignore me, Prince Stark!"

"Uncle?" asked Rickard. "Is he..."

"You're here to watch, Rick. Not to listen to a rapist." Ned drew on his reins and nudged his horse's sides with his heels, leading the way out of the gates. He paused in the gateway and looked back, meeting Ramsey Snow's pale eyes with his own grey ones. He'd been struck over the years that although the colour of Bolton eyes and Stark eyes was very similar, they really were unalike in every other way. "I can have you gagged, if you wish.".

They rode out under grey and white banner, the wind coming out of the north. A cold wind.

"Winter is coming," he murmured.

"Our blades are sharp."

When Ned jerked his head and looked at the prisoner, the man smirked. "What, aren't we quoting our House's words?"

Ned shook his head silently and kept riding, looking around to watch as men worked to repair and improve the houses of the winter town. A few stopped as they saw him ride past. Only Crejon was innocent enough to wave to them and out of the corner of his eye he saw Robb ride closer to the boy, catch his arm and lean over. Hopefully with an explanation of why he shouldn't do so.

Not when the Stark rode to execute.

If the town was fuller, custom would have had the execution in the market square right outside Winterfell's gates. Through the summer, when few would be there to lay witness, Ned preferred to use a spot outside the wolfswood. There was a weirwood stump there to serve as the block of ironwood in the market square might once winter came and the wintertown filled with clans out of the mountains and forests.

The prisoner looked down on him when he dismounted. "I did nothing my father has not. Or many a lord before, Stark or Bolton. You don't know how I was born."

"Kicking and screaming." Ned walked over to the stump. "I also know how you were sired."

Ramsay kicked at the guards as he was dragged from the horse. "Ah, the honourable Eddard Stark knows. And what will you do about it? Ignore it, because he's the king's friend?"

That stung but Robert had sent a letter with Roose Bolton's and it had provided some perspective. He could see the boys were hanging on every word. "Your father has been granted permission to take the black."

"Then I will do the same. See, we didn't even have to come out here to settle this." Ramsay sat back on his heels and held up his manacled hands.

Ned drew Ice. "The Wall needs men. Not beasts." He nodded to Jory Cassel. "Hold him."

It took two men to hold Ramsay in place. Ned raised the greatsword high. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, on the counsel of Roose of the House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Master of Laws, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Prince and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

He brought the sword down.

Blood gushed from the stump of the Bolton's neck, soaking into the roots of the tree-stump. The head rolled almost as far as the horses where the boys watched with dread and fascination. It had been the same for he, Brandon and Benjen.

The body's ruined tunic gave Ned something to clean Ice with. Once the sword was away he walked to the boys. "His isn't the first Bolton blood shed here, or at the block in wintertown," he told them. "For generations, the Red Kings and the Winter Kings fought for dominion over the North. Some of your ancestors fell at the Bolton's hands and their blood was shed at the Dreadfort."

"They were flayed, weren't they?" asked Brandon nervously.

He'd hoped Old Nan would have left that out of her tales. Catelyn felt the boys were too young. But the truth was something they needed to know. "Aye. Some of them. That wasn't their worst sin. Roose Bolton is not the worst of men and his sons may be better yet. We've taught them good lessons over the years."

Ned pointed to Ramsay. "You heard him turn against his father, accusing him of rape in the hope of lessening his own punishment. I don't ever want to hear you turning on each other. Wolves may disagree amongst themselves but the pack must always come first. It was that strength, the fact that we can rely on each other, that won the Starks the North. Failing to understand that brought the Boltons defeat after defeat."

He looked at each of the boys in turn until they had all nodded in acceptance of the lesson.

* * *

  
**Alliser I**

He'd never seen a wildling camp before but this one made the most miserable smallfolk village he'd seen south of the Wall look like a prosperous market town by comparison.

The leader of the camp wore armour of bone and heavy furs but he had an iron helm. Alliser thought the man - his name was Ryk but his folk mostly called him Longspear - was probably a raider. He had that look. "They're from no grave diggings," he told Mance Rayder. "We burn our dead, you crows would know that."

"Then they're recently slain."

"Our hunters don't return from the Frostfangs. Not even one." The man tugged his braided beard. "You ken what that means."

"I've heard the legends. I didn't put much weight on them."

"Legends don't kill men. Some of the villages have been abandoned. Not all of them went east."

"Or south?" asked Alliser.

"There's a Wall in the way, crow. I can't name those whose banners are along it but I saw their banners."

Mance gave Alliser a stern look. "If this is... them, then it seems that they're targeting Wildlings to turn them into wights. King Robert isn't happy about living Wildlings attacking the Wall. I doubt he'd be pleased by dead Wildlings doing so."

"Probably not." Ryk frowned and then gestured towards Mance's belt and the dagger sheathed there. "For someone who doesn't believe in legends, you're all well-equipped with dragonglass."

"I'm not sure our King places weight on legends being real," Ser Tyrion observed drily. "But he knows they can be used to inspire men. These daggers are supposed to just be an honour for men who come to the wall." He paused and muttered something under his breath.

"What was that, little man?"

"Just a idle thought. Those dead men - wights, I suppose the word is, they slew half our number even though we outnumbered them. If you were all to be turned in that way, the threat to Westeros would be considerable. I think Robert is practical enough that he'd be willing to come to a compromise."

"It might add new weight to the offer I was sent to bring here," said Mance drily.

"What offer?"

Alliser had to agree with the Wildling. This was the first he'd heard of any offer.

"King Robert is willing to provide you to access to richer lands than those north of the Wall. There are conditions, and he will hold you to them, but better that than being wights, no?"

Ryk grimaced. "He demands we kneel, Rayder? The free folk don't kneel."

"That must put a terrible crimp on some activities," Tyrion said and waggled his eyebrows.

There was a laugh from some of the wildlings listening and Ryk smirked. "Not that I've noticed."

Tyrion's eyebrows stopped waggling and he arched them. "Interesting."

"What lands are you talking about, Rayder?" growled Alliser. The Usurper was seven kinds of fool but fool enough to unleash Wildlings south of the Wall?

"They aren't lands he rules, Ryk," Mance explained, gesturing to Allister for quiet. "You won't owe him obedience, or kneeling. But by the same measure, all he'll do is send you there. Taking those lands and holding them will be your problem, not his."

"Enemies of his, no doubt."

"Well it's not the sort of thing one does to friends." Mance shrugged. "You and any tribes you can convince to follow you, are offered transport to these lands from Eastwatch-on-Sea. King Robert can have a hundred ships there to carry you, along with your families and any livestock and possessions that can be crammed aboard. If there are more people willing to leave the North behind then we can send the ships back and do this again."

"You might need to do that more than once," Ryk warned.

"What are you saying, Ryk?" called a woman among the wildlings.

"I'm saying the kneeler king may be the best option we have."

She spat onto the ground. "How do we know he won't have us in chains as soon as we're on his ships. You know what happens to those captured along the shores by ships."

"Not in the west, I hope." The Half-man smirked. "If the Ironborn have a ship left to raid with then they'll be buried in men looking for more glory than they found on the Wall."

"Not the west, of late. Not since Euron the Crow." Ryk glared at Mance and Alliser.

"Here, he wasn't of the Night's Watch. He called himself that."

"His ship was seen off the Wall only months ago."

Tyrion's grin spread wider and he buffed his fingernails against the folds of his cloak. He glanced at Alliser and Mance with a twinkle in his eyes.

Alliser gritted his teeth. Damned if he'd sing the praises of a turncoat Lannister.

Mance was less reserved. "The Greyjoys died almost ten years ago. The ship has a new master now, and I think slaving is one depth he hasn't sunk to."

"A man must have standards," Tyrion proclaimed smugly. "Euron Greyjoy was last seen heading for the bottom of Ironman's Bay. It's deep water, and so far as anyone knows, he's still down there. Perhaps he found something interesting down there."

The wildlings looked at him. "Is he joking?" Ryk asked.

"He's the one who hooked Euron to an anchor."

"The dwarf killed Euron the Crow."

"I think he might have been the first man I ever killed," Tyrion said thoughtfully. "The battle's a bit of a blur, honestly. But to address your first point, Westeros has laws against slavery and King Robert is notoriously enthusiastic about enforcing them."

"And you think he'll believe in wights?"

Alliser snorted. "We didn't kill all of them. Two of them are wrapped in chains and Barristan Selmy is taking them south on what's left of our ships, along with the wounded. It'd take a brave man to question his word, even if he didn't have wights to show them."

"Fine then." Ryk looked around. "If the wights are attacking so close, we should move anyway. But I doubt many will believe me unless I have Crows with me to swear to it." He put his hands on his hips. "And maybe the dwarf."

"You want me to walk all the way to the Shivering Sea?"

"Too much for you?" asked Ryk.

"Thank the gods, I brought paper and ink. I'll want to take extensive notes."

"He's written books," Alliser explained to the puzzled looking wildlings.

"And I feel another one coming on!"

Alliser shook his head. It's all coming together for Baratheon again, he thought, touching the dagger at his own belt. He arms us against the wights before anyone knows about them and has a plan to remove the Wildlings to... where? Mance avoided giving a definite answer. Either the gods smile on him with especial favour or...

The knight ground his teeth. Or he knew. But how would that be possible? But it's too much of a coincidence. Someone is pulling strings, Baratheon or... But who else could? Who else would? Is he up to something or is it madness, like Rhaegar's?


	27. Chapter 27

**Jon XV**

"I appreciate your willingness to step in as Master of Laws," Robert said once he and Jon were in private. They'd withdrawn to one of Robert's privy chambers, one with only two chairs, facing each other across a fire. Candles glowed beside the door, but almost all of the dim light of the evening came from the logs in the fireplace.

"I'm sure the dressmakers of King's Landing will appreciate it more."

The King waved Jon to one of the chairs and then grinned boyishly. "Lysa wants to go shopping?"

"She was talking about new clothes for herself and the boys. I think I got away with promising I'd get some new shirts. The summer-weight clothes have had more wear than usual, after all."

"I'm sure my tax collectors will appreciate the extra business you've brought to King's Landing." The King was fighting to keep a straight face. Jon took that to mean that he rather doubted Lysa would be constrained in her spending. Fortunately nine years of summer harvests had left the Vale's coffers relatively flush even after Baelish's depredations in Gulltown had been taken care of.

"More seriously, your willingness to take a junior position on the Small Council after being Hand for so many years means a great deal to me." Robert poured wine for them both.

Jon accepted the goblet and sipped. It was watered but only lightly. Enough that it was less likely to go to the head but not enough to affect the flavour. Robert had learned something of moderation it seemed. "Lord Bolton appears to have handled the matter well."

"I don't approve of what he did," Robert grumbled. "But honestly, when I was sowing my own oats, I have to wonder how many women would have turned me down if I wasn't heir to the Stormlands."

"A question of degree perhaps." Although Jon suspected that the number was small. Robert had been a handsome boy and he'd matured into an impressive man. "Still, he made enemies. And as your Master of Laws his own obedience to the laws must be impeccable."

Rejoining the Small Council had been hard to arrange. Rayder, Clegane and Maester Coleman's positions weren't influential enough, even if he'd been qualified. The same could be said of Ser Brynden or Ser Davos - Jon didn't fancy his chances of joining the Royal Guards or of learning more of seamanship than he already did.

With Prince Stannis as Hand, his options had narrowed to Master of Whispers, Master of Coins and Master of Laws. The Stokeworths and the Rosby's had been a natural clique to rally discontent at the northern influence in the Court and Bolton had made few friends when he was Seneschal.

And then the man's own bastard had given him an opening. Even his protege, Clegane, had been neutralised. The custom of First Night had been abolished by royal decree and for a man whose ruthless adherence to the law was becoming legendary, that had been sufficient.

"He's been a fine counsellor." Robert sipped on his own goblet. "I offered him a pardon but he declined. He said his sons should learn from his example and not give in to the hot blood of youth."

"This doesn't affect Bella's marriage plans, I gather?"

"Not at all. Bella remains smitten by that handsome young devil. Although he's always nervous around me for some reason."

Jon smiled slightly. "Perhaps if you hadn't had your warhammer with you at the betrothal feast?"

"He should know what he's getting into." Robert leant back and looked at the fireplace. "I hope you know what you're getting into."

"Lord Bolton's documentation of the cases being ruled on are quite thorough and I do have some familiarity with the Court."

"Yes. Stannis may need your support while I'm in the North."

"You're going north?" Jon put his goblet aside.

"It isn't definite yet, but there are some odd reports from the Wall." Robert rubbed his face. "It may come to nothing, but I may need to call the banners."

"If you're going to muster an army against the Wildlings, could I ask you to do the same about the Mountain Clans of the Vale?"

Robert chuckled. "I would be happy to treat them the way I'm planning to handle the Wildlings but I doubt they'd be as receptive."

"I'm not sure I follow." What was Robert up to?

"Let's not borrow trouble from the future. There's a substantial expedition north of the Wall and I can't make a decision until they send a report. In the meantime, I'll be sailing north to Gulltown and White Harbour with young Eddard. It's time to let him meet some of the more siginficant lords on their own ground. Visiting the other major eastern ports should broaden his horizons a bit."

Jon nodded his agreement. The young prince was ten years old now, more than time to start thinking about preparing him in more specific terms for his future. "Have you considered how to foster him?"

"I have fond memories of the Eyrie, but it'd be hard for you to foster him meaningfully while you're on the Small Council. It's the same problem with Stannis. I considered Winterfell but if there's going to be a war there..."

"Hmm. Casterly Rock?"

"It's a thought. Or if the Wall situation turns out not to be serious, we could return via Riverrun. I'm not sure Hoster Tully's health will hold up but once Edmure's married he should spend more time there and it would improve relations with the Tullys."

"Not a bad principle," agreed Jon. "Or the Lannisters. And it's not too early to consider who he should wed."

"Too early? People have been bending my ear and Alayne's since the day he was born." Robert shook his head dismissively. "You don't have a girl the right age and nor does Hoster. Ned's girl is possible, so is Jaime Lannister's. Or I might find a good Stormland girl for him."

That made good political sense to Jon. "Now that the Tyrell girl is wed, those would be the best options. On another note, you didn't mention what your plans are for the Wildlings."

"No, I didn't." Robert met his eyes. "It's a sensitive matter, Jon. At least for now I'm only telling people, even my counsellors, when they need to know. Lord Bolton hasn't been informed, for example. Although since he's planning to travel north with me before departing for the Wall, he may find out before most do."

"Cementing that he retains royal favour?"

The king nodded. "His enemies may feel free to move further against him now that he's out of office - or to move against his family. I would be grateful, Jon, if you could make it clear that his family are part of my extended family. I would be greatly angered if someone were to try to push Domeric or young Barton into an unfavorable situation..." He paused. "Let me put it this way. Criticising one of my counsellors is acceptable. A family feud in the royal court is something I won't tolerate."

Jon met his foster son's eyes. Does he know? I think not. But he suspects someone acted and if he's set the Queen of Thorns to find out then she's going to find something. The question is what. "I understand, your grace."

Should I have waited? No, I don't have the time. Returned here without an official position? Robert would have made me welcome but how much could I have done?

This was the right thing to do. Robert needs my guidance in his rule. And this is no more than deferred justice for a crime Roose Bolton committed.

* * *

  
**Viserys XI**

Swords slithered from scabbards around him and Viserys twisted like a cat, his own sword half-drawn before he realised the swords weren't pointed at him.

The Tattered Prince was the only one without a drawn sword. Bronn was looking about warily, blade in hand and looking around at the men of the Windblown. "Something someone forgot to tell me about?"

"Not so much forgot, Bronn." The prince flicked his gaze to Viserys. "Please step away from him, Ser Viserys."

"And then?" he asked cautiously. He released the hilt of his sword and let it slip back away. If he drew it now he suspected the result would be an explosion of violence that could leave the entire company's leadership dead or dying.

"And then we talk about whether Bronn has a future with the Windblown."

The grizzled sell-sword gave the Prince a wry look. "Oh? That's still on the table?"

"You haven't done anything overtly against our interests so far."

Viserys stepped back from Bronn cautiously and the circle of swords opened for him. "What's this about? Why didn't you tell me of this?"

The Tattered Prince shook his head. "Partly because it would place you in a difficult position as his friend. Mostly because he might have suspected something from your behaviour. You see, Bronn is a spy."

"From Westeros?"

"No." Their captain looked over at him. "Not everything is about you, Viserys. Bronn's paymaster is Pentoshi."

Viserys looked at the sellsword in the middle of this drama who shrugged. "It's a living."

"Right now it's a problem. I can solve this problem easily enough."

"Not that easily."

"Easily enough," their captain repeated with emphasis on the last word. "By making you neither Windblown nor dead. Or if you choose one, you can walk away from this with your skin intact."

"Even if I keep writing letters to Varys."

"There would be an enforced halt in your correspondence until it doesn't matter. After that you can walk away. You've done well enough by me I'd accept that."

"And if I choose the Windblown."

"You'll still be watched. But I'd think you have an eye to stay on the winning side."

Viserys blinked. "You're going back to Pentos?" The fishing village they were camped by was unremarkable save that it stood on a junction in the road. Here they would either turn north to Braavos as expected or south and take the road to Pentos. The Windblown only had five hundred men.

The Tattered Prince smiled. "Yes, and not alone. I've been planning this for a long time and I have allies."

"Braavos?"

A shake of the head.

Viserys felt a creeping feeling and walked past the Tattered Prince to look out to sea. There had been ship sails before the sun dipped towards the horizon and now the dying embers of the sun showed more and more. "Baratheon's fleet."

"It seems the King of Westeros isn't above hiring out his ships as transport." The Tattered Prince removed his cloak and replaced it with a second, a pale red - almost pink. "I've supporters within the city, not to mention tributary cities who're tired of the grasping ways of the Magisters. A true prince, ruling a city that can be the power it always should have been."

A new figure walked up from the shadows of the shore. "You're looking well, Viserys." There were new lines on Renly Baratheon's face and he'd clearly been exposed to the weather over the last few years. "Does the sellsword life suit you?"

"Does married life suit you?"

The lord of Summerhall shrugged. "There are reasons I spend much of my time at sea." He turned to the Tattered Prince and bowed formally. "Do I address his grace, Prince Rhys Builtien of Pentos?"

"You do, sir."

"I have near ten thousand fighting men, along with their families and livestock, aboard my ships. Between you and me, I'm almost as eager to get them ashore as they are to meet their new ally."

"And I am eager to meet their leaders. Permit me to deal with my current business. I don't believe it will take long."

Viserys saw Bronn's lips curl wolfishly. He drew his sword slowly and then raised it to the sky. "All hail the Prince of Pentos," he said matter-of-factly. "Long live Prince Rhys."

The rest of the officers followed suit, although several kept their eyes on Bronn until they were sure he wasn't going to do anything reckless. Viserys wasn't concerned by that - the man was no fanatic. But as he raised his own blade in salute his mind was working furiously. Varys the Spider might have set Bronn primarily to watch the Tattered Prince but he'd certainly have been feeding reports on Viserys back as well. The question was... what was Varys doing with that information.

And what should Viserys do about that?

* * *

  
**Barristan IX**

The ride up the river from the Stony Shore had shown Barristan how much the land had changed over the last few years. There was a small port at the rivermouth and villages dotted the riverside, fields being worked as what was probably the last full harvest before winter neared.

He could barely pass one of them without imagining the smallfolk dead... dead and yet walking, using the farm tools to harvest their neighbours who in turn would rise...

Ashara had a book of tales from the Age of Heroes that she read to Duncan. The Long Night had featured in many of them and that prospect was real to him now in ways it hadn't been before.

His Holdfast reared up ahead of him. There had once been four low towers but to make good the damage, one had been torn down and the stones used to restore the other three. What was left of the fourth now served as gateway into the yard surrounded on four sides by low halls connecting the towers. It was hardly Winterfell, but it was defensible and around it sprawled paddocks and barns.

A woodcutter's wagon was being hauled through the gates, loaded with firewood to be added to the immense stacks that would be required to keep the Holdfast warm through the winter. "Lord Selmy!" the teamster called in alarm and started trying to hurry the horses.

"Don't rush," Barristan ordered hastily. "A moment's delay won't spoil my day."

The man nodded but he still had the gate cleared with alacrity. Inside, Ashara had arrived at the door to the Lord's Tower, one hand on Duncan's collar to keep him from rushing down the steps to greet Barristan. Probably wise, the stones were wet and he could see that one of the maids had been scrubbing them, judging by the brush and bucket she was holding.

"My lord," Ashara greeted him once he was dismounted. "Barristan's Holdfast is yours."

He climbed the steps carefully and cupped her cheek. "My lady, I am home." When Duncan was younger he'd have rested his hand on the boy's curly hair but now he offered him his other hand and they clasped each other's wrists. My son is not quite a man yet, but I am beginning to see more of that in him, he thought.

"Let us go inside." Ashara guided him into the tower and then down a side-passage into the hall.

Barristan removed his cloak and sat in his chair at the head of the hall. Duncan knelt to help him out of his riding boots. "Father, was it exciting north of the wall? Did you have an adventure?"

"An adventure." He thought a moment. "We did what we were sent out to do. We found... more than we were looking for."

"Your father is tired, Duncan."

He shook his head. "He should hear this. You both should. We found wights."

"Wights? Like in the stories?"

"Yes, Duncan. Dead bodies, brought back through magic to fight and kill." He looked at his son's startled eyes. "It is a dreadful thing. Perhaps the worst I have seen since Aerys' day. Perhaps worse than that."

"Barristan, wights are myths."

Barristan shook his head at Ashara's words. "I would have said the same and I would have been just as mistaken." He leant back into the chair, feeling his age. "We brought two back to the wall. One was sent to Riverrun and should by now have almost reached King's Landing. The other was sent by ship to Oldtown for the Maesters to see."

"Father, did this really happen?"

"Aye." He shook away the images of the stony beach, covered in dead bodies - some burning. "There were many dead to capture those two."

"Thank the Gods you are home safe, and such things are north of the wall."

Barristan gripped his wife's wrist, more tightly than he had intended. "Pray to the gods that they remain there. But I doubt such prayers will be answered."

* * *

  
**Stannis XVI**

One of the few benefits of the situation was that Stannis had an excuse to gather the Small Council somewhere other than their usual chamber. Instead they gathered at the central dais of the Crown where chains held the wight which had been sent down from Seagard - by way of Riverrun, admittedly.

"Does anyone else have further doubts?" he asked.

The wight, flesh beginning to decay to the point the facial features were no longer clear, hadn't ceased to struggle since its arrival. Manacles at ankle and wrist had been supplemented by additional chains that ran directly through the wight's flesh and bones, linking to heavy weights, each of which required two men to carry.

"By the Seven," Jon Arryn murmured. "It's real."

Olenna Tyrell coughed harshly. "Thank you for that incisive commentary, Prince Arryn."

"You don't find this astonishing?"

"I found it astonishing when it was first reported, a month ago. Do you only trust what you see with your own eyes?"

"Enough," Stannis snapped. "We're faced with a... creature from folklore. Grand Maester, what do you make of it?"

Colemon grimaced and moved closer to the wight. "Hold the chains to keep it from moving," he instructed the guards.

With some reluctance the guards moved closer, grabbing the chains and pulling them to remove what little slack they had, making it safer for the aged Maester to grip the wight's wrist. "No pulse," he reported and produced a small knife. He buffed it against his robe. "Someone hold his head."

None of the guards stepped forwards to do so.

"Do your duty," snapped Stannis irritably.

Davos Seaworth stepped forwards. "I'll do it." The Master of Ships seized the wight's head between his hands.

"Thank you, Ser Davos." Colemon held the knife in front of the wight's mouth for a few moments and then examined it. "No misting - he isn't breathing." The maester jabbed the blade into the neck and made an incision. He stepped back and shook his head. "Nor does it bleed. You can release him now, Ser Davos."

The sailor did so hastily. "It smells vile," he added. "And I grew up in Fleabottom."

"Well, it's a dead body." Colemon stepped back in unnecessary alarm as the guards released the chains and the body immediately strained against them. "And, well. Certainly aggressive. I can't think of anything else it can be but a wight, right out of the legends. King Robert's consulted me on several books collecting myths and legends from the time of the First Men, and there's no other explanation."

"And Lannister's letter says they die to dragonglass and fire." Stannis shook his head. "What else can we use?"

"Faith, your grace," pronounced the High Septon in a sonorous voice. One disadvantage of meeting here was that it was hard to exclude other interested parties. "Such evil as this cannot harm a man armoured in piety."

Sandor Clegane snorted. "I'll be wanting one of those daggers then."

A practical man, Clegane. "And besides that?"

"So far, I'm uncertain. I've written to Archmaester Marwyn. He's our foremost expert on magic and such matters." The maester sighed. "He's examining the body and he recommends bringing in Qyburn."

"Qyburn?" asked Stafford Lannister.

"A former Maester. He was expelled from my order for... studies of living bodies and attempts at revitalising the dead. Crimes in the eyes of our brethern but it must be said... appropriate to the situation."

"Where is this man?"

"He joined a sellsword company. Such men have plenty of use for his surgical skills."

Stannis nodded. "Find him and involve him then. If he has issues with Maesters, perhaps he will work for the crown."

"Perhaps if you wrote to him directly, Prince Stannis?"

"I'll do that."

"Should we consider withdrawing our efforts from supporting Prince Builtien?" asked Jon Arryn. "If the legends are true then it took the full efforts of all the First Men in Westeros to turn back the Others. If this is a sign of their return..."

"What else can it be?" Davos asked quietly.

"We must assume that it is. And that they are killing wildling tribes to build up an army of wights to assault the wall." Stannis folded his arms. "That makes the efforts to remove wildlings from north of the wall all the more important. It's a small enough investment and a favorable regime in Pentos could make all the difference."


	28. Chapter 28

**Obara V**

Obara eyed the letter from Sunspear and set it aside for one from Renly. It opened with the usual platitudes and then a more enthusiastic discussion of the Pentoshi coast, the view of the sun rising from above it... He wished she and the children been there to see it with him. That part sounded sincere.

She put the letter down and rubbed her face. There were musicians in the garden, playing ballads to entertain the children, she could hear them outside.

Poor little bastard girl, she thought mockingly. Prince's daughter, prince's wife, living in the lap of luxury. What do you have to complain about?

There was a knock on the door.

"Yes?"

"You're looking dour," Aemma noted as she entered. "Is there bad news?"

"I don't believe so." Obara handed over Renly's letter. She reminded herself yet again that when Renly was next in King's Landing they should consider buying somewhere for themselves rather than living in Stannis' townhouse. The Summerhall revenues were surely sufficient for that, but Renly's stewards preferred to send the reports to her goodbrothers when Renly was away at sea and she didn't quite know how to change that.

Aemma scanned the letter. "He misses you, Maron and Dorie. He was always good with the other children."

That was true, she admitted. He was rarely home for their children but he certainly treated them well when he was in King's Landing, just as he did his nephews and nieces. Obara was caught by a memory of his first return after Maron started to talk. Their son had called him 'Unca Renly' and she'd had to explain that this wasn't his uncle but his father.

To cover the memory, Obara broke the seal on her uncle's letter. He'd heard from her father, which was more than she had since her marriage to Renly. He and Ellaria were still in Oldtown and had seen the wight from the north brought to the Citadel for examination. Doran was curious as to her own impressions of the second wight, currently being held in a cell beneath the Red Keep.

Unexpectedly this was followed by an invitation for her to bring the children to the Water Gardens so Doran could meet them. Since Quentyn's death almost every letter had included some polite note that it was 'such a shame' that she couldn't return to Dorne. And now an invitation? She had to read it twice to make sure she wasn't mistaken.

There was a rustle as Aemma put Renly's letter on the table. Obara quickly scanned the rest of the letter. News of her other sisters, candles Doran had been sent from Oldtown... she shook her head. Why mention those, some veiled hint she was missing? And a request to...

The paper crumpled slightly in her hand.

"Obara?" Aemma was looking at her strangely.

"An... odd request from my uncle."

"Really?"

"Or perhaps I simply don't grasp the politics. He's asked me to explore the possibility that Jon Arryn might take my cousin Trystane as his squire." Renly had been the Prince of the Vale's squire too. And both the King and Prince Stark had fostered with him. Short of a marriage alliance there was little that could bind House Martell to the Baratheon's loyalists more... or at least to bind Prince Doran.

Obara had heard nothing from Arianne since Quentyn's death. And Trystane was the same age now that his brother had been at the Great Council, when he poisoned Tywin Lannister.

"That's a daring offer," agreed Aemma thoughtfully. "My uncle isn't a young man, but it may also create bonds of friendship between Prince Trystane and my cousins."

"I suppose it's a question of whether Prince Arryn would trust a Martell in his household."

"Quite. I don't recall having met Trystane. He would have been too young to attend the Great Council I suppose." She spread her hands. "All you can do is ask, my dear. Ultimately this isn't a decision that either of us will be making."

Obara nodded. "Do you know anything about candles from Oldtown? My uncle mentions them as if they have significance."

"No more than any other city's that I can think of," Aemma told her after a moment of thought. "Your uncle is a very learned prince, however. Perhaps you should ask the Grand Maester. Why not come with me to the Crown tomorrow and you can put your question to him and also to Prince Arryn."

She hid a wince. That meant dressing up in a fine and expensive dress suitable to court - she had plenty, of course. Renly had made sure her wardrobe was worthy of a princess - and likely having to speak to half a dozen junior officials around the Master of Laws who wanted to try to catch the eye of Prince Renly's wife. She was half-tempted to go there in riding leathers and carrying a spear, to see if that affected their manners.

* * *

  
**Viserys XII**

Black wings flapping before his face. A swordhilt gripped in one hand.

A dream again, Viserys thought. He had no time for such dreams. He swatted with his free hand at the bird and it flew away.

This did not wake him, but it did stir him to the larger dream around him. He was on dragonback again, a dream he now found frustrating not inspiring. There were no more dragons. He could no more ride one across the Narrow Sea to take the crown than he could reclaim the throne Robert Baratheon had had melted down.

A crown might be within his reach if he had an army. Which would require both a warchest and a reputation to draw men to him. Dragons were just childish dreams and it was time for him to wake up.

Beneath the mount he dreamed of, the sea gave way to land and the setting sun retreated before him. Hills covered in pines and weirtrees, as he imagined the North to be, but no sign of civilization.

Another dragon flew in the distance. Vhagar, he thought, recalling the descriptions of dragons he'd read obsessively when he was younger. So he was riding Balerion and the silver-haired rider of Vhagar was Visenya. No doubt if he turned his head he would...

Something of his hands caught his attention. The hilt in the right one matched what he'd read of Blackfyre but...

The hands were too large. Too soft. He knew his calluses and these hands lacked them.

Aegon's hands? But he had been a swordsman. These were not a soldier's hands.

Viserys stared across at the other dragon. At its rider. At his own face, no less shocked than he felt, staring back at him.

"Aah!"

He sat up sharply, gorge rising and then turned over on his camp bed, emptying his supper over the side and barely missing his boots. Gods, he thought, unsure which he meant. He'd had no great affection as a boy for the septons, and little lore remained of the Valyrian gods his family had once worshiped. He might as well call on the North's Old Gods or those of the Essosian cities.

Wiping his face, Viserys tried not to dwell on the image. Just a dream. Some old recollection of the Usurper's gibe about being crowned with a consort's crown perhaps.

"I told you not to drink so much last night," Bronn observed from the other bed in the tent. He wasy lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head.

Viserys shook his head to clear it. "No you didn't."

"No, I didn't," the older man admitted. "I probably should have, though. It's going to be another long day."

"I didn't think we were marching."

"We're not. That's the problem."

"Ugh." Viserys flopped backwards onto his bed. That really was a problem. The Free Folk were for the most part possessed of tremendous energy. Given a destination to march to or a foe to attack, that made them valuable. In camp it was nothing but trouble.

Renly Baratheon's fleet had brought more than twenty thousand of the northern barbarians across the Narrow Sea and he was expected to meet them soon with further reinforcements, before they made the final march to Pentos. That march would take them away from the sea - along the shore of the Bay of Pentos, but those weren't waters where King Robert could send his war fleet without provoking Myr and possibly Tyrosh.

Viserys wasn't privy to the exact details, but he knew that the Tattered Prince's campaign to seize Pentos was as much diplomatic as it was military. Braavos was financing him and Robert was providing him with an expendable corps of troops in the form of the Free Folk, but both powers were careful to preserve the illusion that this was merely an internal matter to Pentos and its tributaries.

"We can't move on until we have more reinforcements," Bronn reminded him. "How many wildlings have died or just run off? A quarter?"

"A third, I think. Mance Rayder said it was mostly smaller tribes that don't like their chances at getting choice loot when we get to Pentos."

"Do you really think the Prince will let them loot the whole city?"

"If so then he won't reign very long," Viserys warned. "He'd lose most of his support inside Pentos. More likely he'll confiscate the fortunes of Magisters and reward them out of that. It'd be more than enough wealth, I should think."

"Ah. Do you think that there will be any gold left for the rest of us?"

The one-time prince snorted. "They'll probably value iron weapons over gold."

"Sounds like a fair division of the spoils."

"No lingering loyalties to your paymasters?"

Bronn shrugged. "When a contract is over, it's over. You've sold your sword long enough you should know that."

* * *

  
**Jon XVI**

Under the Targaryens it had been acceptable protocol for the Hand of the King to sit upon the Iron Throne in place of the king. It emphasised that he spoke with royal authority.

Robert's throne was far less imposing and the new custom was for the chair with its Baratheon cloak draped upon it to represent the king even in absence. The Hand spoke from beside it, either stood to the right or from a smaller chair slightly behind the throne on its dais. Jon sat with the other Small Council members to one side of the dais as the ambassadors of the southern Free Cities recounted their positions with suitable histronics.

At any other time, I'd think that Robert should be here and not off north of the Neck. With those... things... north of the Wall, I can't argue with his decision to go to Winterfell. It's not as if he's going to run off on a hunting trip with Ned. At least he'd sent Eddard to Riverrun with Ser Brynden. The last thing we need is to risk anything that could cost us both King and Crown Prince. Even though Stannis would be lawful heir, it would cause confusion.

"I understand your concern regarding the Seven Kingdoms taking sides in the power struggle within Pentos," Stannis told the ambassadors somewhat diplomatically. "My grandfather Ormund died during the War of the Ninepenny Kings so it is not a step we take lightly. During that war, the governance of both Tyrosh and all of Westeros was in question." He paused. "History like that shows us we can't ignore power struggles in Essos - whether Prince Rhys triumphs or the Magisters do will affect the Seven Kingdoms. Obviously we have a preference."

That at least shut up the Tyroshi ambassador, since his city had been taken over by allies of Maelys Blackfyre during that particular conflict.

The Lysene representative was less easily quelled. "And yet there are soldiers from Westeros in the Prince's army."

"If a sellsword's origins were evidence of miltary support, Rhys Builtien could claim alliances as far away as Asshai," Jon interjected. "It's true that there are men of the Seven Kingdoms among his army but the same is true of the Magisters' army."

"I'm not speaking of individual sellswords. Our informants tell us that there are a company of five hundred well-drilled royal armsmen in Builtien's forces." The Lysene pointed to the discreet guards at the entrance to the hall. "Men such as these."

Stannis grunted and turned his head to Olenna Tyrell. "Do you know anything of this?"

"Most probably he means the Lion's Pride," she replied. "If you recall, Ser Gerion Lannister did recruit a large number of veterans of the King's Men when he formed his sellsword company. It's more than likely that his men still use the same gear."

"There you go. Sellswords." The Hand didn't particularly mask his sneer at the Lysene. Stannis' idea of diplomacy remained rudimentary, Jon thought. Perhaps he should meet with the ambassador later and try to smooth matters over? "What can you expect?"

"If I may, Prince Stannis." The Myrman adjusted the frontings of his elaborate coat. "Your brother's armies may not have crossed the Narrow Sea so far, but they are being mustered. It's hardly a secret that the Princes of Dorne and the Rock have called their banners and are amassing fleets to transport those armies."

"I do not deny it," replied Stannis. "They will not be travelling east, however. We face invasion from the North."

"Ah yes, from beyond your famous Wall?" The man curled his lips derisively. "From whence come a great part of Builtien's strength of arms."

"Those who accepted the Prince's offer to cross the Narrow Sea are the smaller part of the tribes there," Jon offered smoothly. "Imagine, if you will, a host of Dothraki Khalsar's descending on Myr. Some may be bought off with gifts, but would all the Khals agree to that? Or would you need to withdraw behind your city walls and hire sellswords?"

"I see. Well, in that case you will not be concerned if we hire sellswords and reinforce our defenses. Just in case these northern barbarians of yours decide to move further south than Pentos."

"Of course we don't mind," snapped Stannis.

The Myrish Ambassador bowed, face still sardonic. "My thanks for your forthrightness, Prince Baratheon. I believe any other concerns I have for now can be deferred until your brother returns from the North."

The other two ambassadors seemed to agree so they also made their bows and departed, talking quietly amongst themselves before they reached the gates.

"That could have gone better."

Olenna Tyrell thinned her lips. "It's unfortunate that there doesn't appear to be more division between them. Fortunately it's no more the Volantean interest than it is ours for the Three Daughters to be united. At the moment it seems unlikely that the current detente will go further than Tyrosh and Lys refraining from drawing Myrish attention southwards until it's clear who will win in Pentos."

Stannis nodded. "Good enough." He stretched and then rubbed his injured leg. "Prince Arryn, I'd like to meet with you after lunch to discuss the eastern levy's movements. We don't have as much shipping available as I'd like to move them to the Wall with our ships having to divert to Pentos."

"Perhaps we could talk over lunch," Jon suggested, rising to his feet.

"No, I must meet my goodsister and her household. Robert gave me instructions regarding Daenerys and Cassana."

"Ah." Marriage plans, no doubt. The girls were old enough and it was going to be important to hold Robert's allies among the great lords together. Jon masked annoyance at not being consulted and turned to offer Lady Tyrell an invitation to dinner. The tiny woman was already walking away, however, leaning on her stick as she addressed the grim-faced Sandor Clegane. The Seneschal of the City replied with grunts as she lectured him about the moral failings of two of her Redwyne kinsmen.

* * *

  
**Varys X**

It wasn't the first city he'd seen sacked. At King's Landing the gates had been opened through Aerys' gullibility, here they'd been blasted to ruin by what were almost certainly siege engineers in King Robert's service.

Varys thought that Tywin Lannister simply hadn't cared what happened to the smallfolk of King's Landing. Rhys Builtien was more sensitive to this but it wasn't his army doing the bulk of the sacking. Rioters were managing that more than handily.

The eunuch waited quietly in the shadows of an alleyway, watching as his home burned. He felt surprisingly sentimental about the house and the workshops within its walls, but there was nothing there he'd risk his life for. Even the egg, probably still beneath his bed unless the looters had been remarkably thorough, wasn't worth that.

The alley he'd picked for a shelter was off one of the city's avenues. From here he thought he could probably find his way out. The Prince wasn't a fool, that was evident. Varys' word counted for something now, which would hopefully be useful enough that options would remain open. He'd tried to be even-handed and factual about the war in his broadsheets... which might have something to do with his workshop being targeted.

If remaining still wasn't a matter of survival he would have shrugged. It was impossible to please everyone.

Varys was about to move when he heard the tramp of feet from the direction of the gates. A column of men carrying torches were marching towards him. With a sigh he relaxed. Best to let them move past.

The soldiers were in good order by sellsword standards, he noted. The column was broken into groups of a few dozen, each obviously with someone in charge and they seemed watchful. Their attentiveness was called on as with little warning a new force of warriors swarmed out of a mansion and crashed into one of the groups. The sellswords turned to fight and that was when a second force of ambushers emerged out of the house on the other side of the street and caught them from the rear.

Varys could see that the leader of the second force wore a long white cloak and while no other details were evident he could guess who it was.

The street he'd hoped to use for his escape was now awash with fighting men. It was hard to tell what was happening at the tail of the column but the leading groups responded smoothly as orders were shouted and the leading troop formed a line across the street just ahead of Varys' alleyway. He could see their leader, a grizzled man with a familiar set to his shoulders, glance back at the leader of the next group who had his men turning back to rescue the centre of the column.

The eunuch studied the sellsword. Yes, he knew the man. He'd even corresponded with him until the start of the current problems... which said unfortunate things about the reception he might offer Varys. Then again, that might make him the perfect person to arrange an introduction to Rhys Builtien.

Still, none of that would matter if the counter-attack made progress. Varys shifted carefully to look down the street.

The momentum had turned, he could tell. The white-cloaked leader - Ser Arthur Dayne, he was sure - was more than holding his own but the rapid response from the head of the column had turned the street into a slaughterhouse as his men were outflanked. It was only a matter of time before the rear of the column did the same and turned this into a trap.

In Dayne's shoes, Varys would have taken this as the moment to withdraw, but he was made of more flexible material than the Sword of Morning. The knight pressed forwards, shouting for his men to follow him and cut their way through the enemy towards the centre of the city - and towards Varys. The city's guards responded to the call with fervor, but they were met with cold steel and by a mercenary who - for the first time in the skirmish - brought Dayne to a standstill.

In the light of the remaining torches - and the flames still consuming Varys' home - the white-cloaked swordsman duelled a man clad in black. The great white sword of the Daynes hacked away at the mercenary's plain shield but the man was artful in deflecting the blows with the rim of his shield and his cuts and thrusts forced Dayne to guard.

Only by giving his full attention to his opponent could Ser Arthur drive the man back into grudging retreat. But momentum had been lost and his warriors began to fall, a shrinking knot of men at his back as more of Builtien's men joined the fight.

With a frustrated cry, the former kingsguard reversed one of his strokes, stepped in and hammered the pommel of his sword against the helm of his foe. The man recoiled, somehow keeping his feet, and - shield out of position - he blocked the follow up cut with his sword.

There was a nasty sounding crack and the shorter blade snapped.

"Seven hells!" the black-cloaked swordsman cursed and jumped back, raising his shield and discarding the broken sword to wrench off his helm.

Silver hair streamed loose in the night and from the alley Varys saw Arthur Dayne's eyes go wide.

It was a brief distraction but the Valyrian-haired man took advantage, leaping forwards and battering Dayne's sword aside. Inside the arc of the sword he smashed the rim of his shield into the knight's face and he fell. His opponent dropped to his knees, crashing the shield edge down again and again against Dayne's face.

Caught in the moment, Varys straightened. He cursed himself an instant later as he realised he'd caught the eye of the leader of the mercenary vanguard. Well, there was nothing for it. "Is it not amazing the places one can meet old friends, Bronn?"

"Aye, Master Varys. Though I knew you lived here." Unperturbed the sellsword waved back two of his men and stepped forwards with Varys to where Dayne lay, his killer kneeling over him and leaning on his shield.

"May I ask your name, Ser?" asked Varys, offering the man his hand.

Pale eyes stared at him and then the hand. Violet? Well now, this could only be one man. How remarkably interesting.

But instead of naming himself, Viserys Targaryen grasped Varys' wrist and pulled himself upright, then twisted to examine the hand.

Varys flinched at the manhandling, and at the intense look that belonged in the eyes of Viserys' father.

"I've seen this hand before." The one-time prince released him.

"Well I think we have met..."

"It held Blackfyre."

For a moment the world seemed to twist around Varys. How did he know? Was he guessing, what did...? He swallowed, recalling a snatch of dream. "I have never held Blackfyre, Ser Viserys. And yet... might I ask to see your hands?"

Viserys removed his gauntlets, stuffing them through his belt. He extended his hands and Varys claimed the right one, turning it over. Yes, this was familiar. But not anything he'd seen awake.

"Astride Vhagar," he said softly. "Clutching a Valyrian steel sword. Above a northern shore."

"Aye." Viserys shook his head. "You are Varys. You served my father as his Whisperer."

"I did, yes."

"This is all very touching." Bronn nodded to the two of them. "But are you going to hold hands all night or do you mind if we deal with the mess?"

Viserys started. "Yes, of course." He stooped and picked up Dawn from where it had fallen, weighed it in his hands and then started unbuckling its scabbard from Arthur Dayne's corpse. "Check for wounded and dead," he called out.

"To the victor the spoils?" asked Varys.

"I need a sword." He lowered his voice. "And we need to talk."

"I think that we do." About a great many things.


	29. Chapter 29

**Ned XVI**

The North wasn't waiting for the Maesters in Oldtown to proclaim that winter was upon them. Northern holds were already seeing snow and clans were leaving the woods and mountains, carrying every scrap of food and trade goods they could manage down to keeps where they knew that both would be welcomed - along with their labour.

Winterfell was the greatest recipient of these numbers and the wintertown was so bustling that at first the party of horsemen that approached the south gates drew no attention. Ned, however, had expected them and deliberately lingered at the inn nearest the gates on the off-chance he'd here at the right time.

Jory Cassel had been outside - probably chatting to a daughter of one of the Wolfswood clans but that wasn't Ned's concernn - and he whistled shrilly as a signal.

By the time Ned reached the door, Robert had dismounted and clapped Jory on the shoulder in a hearty fashion. "Where's Ned," the King was asking.

"Right here." Ned was about to drop to one knee but Robert grabbed in him a brisk embrace.

"Good to see you, Ned. Long cold ride."

"It'll be warmer inside." Even the prospect of armies of the dead didn't seem to break Robert's nerve, he thought. "Shall we go?" He gestured towards Winterfell.

Robert shook his head. "One thing first." He looked back out down the King's Road. "There's a pack of direwolves out there. Half a dozen perhaps - they followed us a way."

"I'll send out a hunting party." Dire wolves could tear through a party of unwary travellers. Ned was glad they hadn't caught Robert on the road - there were less than a dozen men with him, and only three of them were Royal Guards. He looked again. Two of the men and the only woman. This must be Brienne Tarth, the cause of much grief for Jorah Mormont, whose sister also aspired to the Royal Guard some day.

Robert grimaced. "If you feel that's best. They didn't behave as I'd have expected but I'm no expert on direwolves, other than that you have one on your banner."

"Dangerous beasts."

Ned blinked - he hadn't registered Roose Bolton's presence until the Lord of the Dreadfort spoke up. They exchanged nods. Until Bolton reached the Wall - probably via the Dreadfort since he'd wish to leave everything in order for his son - he was still one of the Stark's most powerful vassals. "They can be, yes."

"Most of the pack looked barely weaned. Better to be rid of them now before they're large enough to be a true threat."

Ned's guards cleared a way up the street to Winterfell itself and windows opened as word spread that the King had arrived. Rather than re-mounting, Robert walked next to Ned leading his horse. Parents held their children up to see their King walking up the street next to their Prince.

"It's been a long time since Winterfell was so busy," Ned said quietly. "My children can't remember such a time. It's hard to believe that some... ancient evil... is stirring beyond the Wall."

"Evil?" Robert's lips quirked. "Are the direwolves out there evil?"

"No, of course not."

The king nodded. "We don't know enough about the Others to be sure what they want. It's safe to say they aren't friendly. But good and evil are very absolute terms."

"Does it make a difference? It's like the direwolves. They may just be following their nature but I still have to deal with them."

"Mmm." Robert seemed unconvinced. "Do motivations no longer matter?"

Was he being reminded of Quentyn Martell again? Ned still remembered how Robert had drunk himself to sleep for the first time in years after executing the boy. "We do what we have to do, Robert."

"And pay the price." His old friend's voice was low - this wasn't a conversation they wished to be overheard and fortunately only two of the Royal Guards were near enough that they might have heard. Then he shook his head. "Have you had any more news of the levies?"

Ned nodded. "The Westerland levies have reached the Saltspear and marching overland they ought to reach the Kingsroad east of Barrowtown about the same time as the Riverland levies coming up from the Neck. The Dornish are at sea."

"The Easterlands and the Vale?"

"Still struggling for shipping. Small companies are being sent from Gulltown and King's Landing as the ships are found. The rest are going to have to march."

"Your goodfather will hate that. Thousands of soldiers eating up his stores." Blue eyes narrowed. "And the Reach?"

"For the most part still being gathered. Lord Redwyne provided ships to move the Dornish levies but that leaves few for the Tyrells to use."

"And in the meanwhile Mace Tyrell has time to work on his lords and undermine Tarly. Damn." Robert shook his head again. "I'll need to send a raven and see what I can do about that."

 

* * *

 

**Viserys XIII**

The fires had burned out, although not without destroying the floor beneath Varys' bed. The bottom floor of his home was thus piled with broken timbers and with what remained of the caskets he'd kept under his bed.

"You have a dragon's egg?" Viserys exclaimed.

The eunuch nodded to him, sweating as he and Bronn lifted a more or less intact bed-post and put it in a stack against one wall.  "That's what I said, yes."

Viserys heaved the remaining half of a chest on to his own stack. The prospect of one third of the gold and jewels recovered had motivated Bronn to join the recovery efforts and while his own share was certainly an inducement to Viserys, he was more interested in keeping an eye on the spymaster. "How did you get your hands on that?"

"King Robert gave it to me before he exiled me from Westeros." The older man wiped his bald brow before returning to his work. "I've wondered why for a long time."

He scowled. There was only one place the egg could have come from then. The treasury of the Targaryens had housed more than a score of dragon-eggs. One had been placed in his cradle when he was an infant - a Valyrian custom maintained by his House even though it had been fruitless for generations.

There had been no eggs in the cradles of Cassana, Eddard or Lyanne. Or Steffana, he suspected, recalling that Alysane had given the Usurper a third daughter. He'd wondered occasionally what had happened to the eggs.

"And do you have any brilliant conclusions?"

Varys paused and looked at him. "At first I thought it was simply an expedient way of giving me an expensive bribe without depleting the royal coffers of coin. He did have a rather large army to pay off, after all. Later I thought of other explanations that seemed less likely - things he'd be more likely to kill me for than pay me for - but Robert Baratheon has more depth than most realise."

Viserys nodded grudgingly. "Explanations like..."

"Well... did you wonder why, in your dream, you saw my hands holding Blackfyre?"

He dropped the chestlid he'd lifted. "What!?"

"Three, maybe four generations... my parents died when I was quite young." The eunuch shook his head. "Check that one, Bronn," he added, pointing to a box so blackened it seemed likely to split open if touched. "Where was I... oh yes. My mother claimed that through her mother's line she had royal blood of Westeros. She didn't say Targaryen, though."

"You're a Blackfyre?"

"The name passes through the male line, so no. But that's the name she gave. Calla Blackfyre, daughter of the first Blackfyre Pretender, may very well be my great-great-grandmother. Assuming that my mother was right but it is rather easier to be sure of such things than it is to be sure of paternity."

Bronn grunted in pleasure as he lifted the lid carefully in gloved hands and then dropped it to one side. "Well I've found my treasure, I don't know about yours." The bags were burned too but they'd brought spares and he went to fetch one to hold the coins he'd found.

Although it was tempting to repeat 'You're a Blackfyre', Viserys realised it would just make him sound like an idiot. "Well... I suppose it's good to meet a distant relative."

Varys smiled - managing to convey a smirk with actually being so uncouth - and nodded. "Indeed, cousin."

The three of them worked together, dividing out the contents of the box between them and then the two younger men removed the wreckage of the chest so that Varys could open the casket beneath it.

The eunuch raised the lid carefully, as if afraid of what he would find. He lowered his head to peek beneath it and then his fingers released the lid, letting it drop closed.

"What is it?"

Without a word, Varys rose and walked out of the wrecked chamber.

Bronn and Viserys exchanged looks and the former recovered his bag before going after their host. Viserys sat back on his heels and looked at the casket for a moment before testing the lid.

The hinges moved smoothly and he hesitated, fingers hooked under the lid before flipping it up and looking inside.

"Gods."

Viserys closed the box and after some work he carried it outside to the courtyard. Varys was sitting quietly by the well, hands on his knees. He turned as he saw Viserys. "You looked?"

He nodded and put the box down by a stack of broken wood that probably wasn't useful for more than firewood. "We should build a pyre."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose we should. I sent Bronn for some wine."

"I like that idea."

Between the two of them they heaped firewood over the chest and by the time Bronn returned with two glass bottles the fire was crackling and sending up a trail of smoke into the sky. Cups had been found in a pillaged cabinet, the looters having been pushed away by the fires before they could smash all the crockery. All three of them sat by the well and watched the fire burn.

"So where will you go now," asked Varys. "The prince will no doubt have a place for you."

"I don't think he trusts me, for some reason," Bronn answered. "Someone will be hiring though. What about you, Viserys? That isn't enough gold to raise an army."

"I think it's time for me to cross the Narrow Sea again."

"Ah." Varys looked at the sword. "Returning Dawn to House Dayne? That might earn you some goodwill among the Dornish."

"A little. They are kin, distantly, and I suppose my House owed Ser Arthur that much." Viserys shook his head. "But I'm not going straight to Starfall. Renly's ships will be here again soon with more Wildlings. We used to get along pretty well. I'm sure I can persuade him to take me back with him."

"What, you want to go north of the Wall?" Bronn reached over and punched his shoulder lightly. "How much wine have you had? You heard what Rayder said - even the savages are fleeing those lands."

"I don't believe that my dreams are an accident." He looked up at the sky, remembering the forested shore he'd flown over upon Balerion in the dream. He'd seen it again, jerked out of a scant few hours sleep the morning after Pentos fell. "There's something there, waiting for me. I don't know what it is but I mean to find out."

"That will be very dangerous." Varys looked up and met his eyes. "The wights are no myth. Stannis Baratheon has one confined in a cage before Baelor's Sept so that everyone in King's Landing can see it. I'm told that a second has been taken to the Citadel in Oldtown, though what they make of it I know not."

Viserys nodded. "Even if it wasn't for the dreams... I'd have to go back."

"Why? What's the benefit?" asked Bronn.

"If this is another... War of the Dawn, and if I stay here in Essos then House Targaryen will be irrelevant. Daenerys certainly can't do anything. Even if I'm never crowned as King, it's my duty to keep that possibility open to my heirs, even if that means putting my claims aside for the duration of an outside threat."

"It must be the noble blood, making him crazy."

"No, he's right." Varys shook his head. "The Baratheon claim will be cemented immensely if they deal with this threat effectively. House Targaryen can only retain any basis for a claim on Westeros by playing a visible role." He reached over and patted Viserys' shoulder. "That must be a hard decision, Ser Viserys."

He looked at the eunuch's hand until it was withdrawn. "I had a very able teacher."

"Would you mind a companion?"

"What, aren't you going to rebuild your broadsheet?"

The portly man gave Bronn a rueful look. "I appear to be an able teacher myself. Two of my former assistants are already petitioning Prince Rhys for support in establishing their own papers. It's not a competition that I would relish."

"Do you think you can keep up?"

Varys buried his hands in his sleeves. "An appearance of ineffectuality has advantages, Ser Viserys. So long as it's merely an appearance."

"Alright."

"The both of you are mad."

"I'm also hiring," Varys said archly.

"I think I have as much wealth as you do, right now."

"For the moment. But shortly my assistants will be bidding rivals for my remaining premises and, of course, for my approval of their efforts as the true successor to my own broadsheet." He smiled cherubically. "The value of a few words on paper cannot be underestimated, my friend. I assure you, I can afford your services."

Viserys let the two of them barter and looked at the fire, seeing in his mind's eye what was within the chest. A shattered shell that should have been hard as stone. And a tiny, half-formed dragon that had never had the chance to spread its wings.

 

* * *

 

**Jon XVII**

The sobbing from the next room and Lysa leaving the bed were growing familiar to Jon. "Another nightmare?" he asked as he sat up.

"I assume so," she said and threw her cloak on over her nightdress before leaving the room.

With a sigh, Jon shuffled the pillows and sat up. Lysa had taken the candle with her but he had a second by his bed and a small box of matches. Striking one against the bedpost he lit the candle and looked over at the wall. Beyond it, Robin's sobs died down. He couldn't hear Rennart's voice so the younger boy had probably managed to sleep through the disturbance.

He tried not to wish that Rennart was the older of the two. Despite the differences in age he was nearly the size of his elder brother and twice as active. While he had no immediate expectations of ill-health, a man who'd seen six Kings on the Iron Throne (figuratively at least, for Aerys I had died when Jon was still an infant) had to expect that the Stranger was counting the hours until they met. Rennart, he thought, would make a strong Prince of the Vale but his brother was a less certain prospect.

Lysa's return would wake him anyway so he folded his arms across his chest and thought instead. The logistics of sending so much of the Seven Kingdom's strength of arms to the far north were daunting and those of feeding them there bordered upon the impossible.

The Wall, at its height, had been manned by thirty thousand brothers of the Night's Watch, supported by the Gift and by donations by lords and kings quick to compete in their generosity. The armies of the North, reinforced by thousands of men from Dorne, the Westerlands and the Riverlands would bring the garrisons to more than double that. Already ships were having to be allocated to bring supplies north from the Reach and west from Braavos - something that was going to have a very unfortunate effect on the realm's finances.

Then again, as Stannis had correctly pointed out: eating gold and silver did no one any good.

The combined Vale and Easterlands levies together - not to mention the balance of the Riverlands levies - would put an intolerable strain on the North's food supplies near the Wall so instead it had been agreed that they'd muster to form a reserve force near White Harbour. It would be much easier to supply them near a great city and from there they could march up to Winterfell or along the coast if they were actually required.

Jon wanted to believe that they weren't, but he'd seen the wight. So had Robin, for that matter, which might make better justification for the nightmares than he'd allowed, the prince admitted to himself. Rennart hadn't reacted so badly though.

Once the Reach's forces were finally in order they'd form the core of a third army near Barrowtown where food could be shipped up to them from Lannisport and Oldtown.

It was startling to think that Robert would have three armies numbering more than a hundred and fifty thousand men at his disposal - closer to two hunded really. Had any of the Targaryens been able to mobilise such forces? Jaeherys the Wise might have - he'd laid out the major roads that Robert had worked hard to restore and the Kingdoms had largely been at peace during his long reign.

A part of Jon felt that such a preponderance of forces should be more than enough to deal with anything that could possibly assault the wall. Another part, something that had more in common with the wailing child in the next room, couldn't help but think back to the tales his nurse had told him when he was a boy; of how the Others had all but wiped out the First Men.

Dammit, why did Lysa refuse to have a nurse for Robin? Then he could get a good night's sleep. He really should wean the boy away from her - or Lysa away from him.

Eventually the noises in the other room died down and Lysa rejoined him, snuffing out her own candle and slipping under the blankets by light of his. "What was it this time? The wight?"

She laid back down beside him. "He said something about birds and about ice breaking. Someone's been telling him old fables again. They should know better - he's a sensitive boy."

"I've been thinking about that." Jon tugged on his ear. "I'm going to see about fostering him somewhere to the south."

"Jon, no! He's too young."

"Not just yet, but it's time to think about it. We can't have him wintering in the Vale - you know he isn't robust."

"You're making too much of it."

"Fostering will do him a world of good. Look at how Robert and Eddard turned out."

"I won't stand for it. Send Rennart if you have to, but Robin isn't going."

"Rennart is barely past his sixth nameday. That's a bit too soon, but Robin needs somewhere he can stretch his wings. If Stannis wasn't here at King's Landing I'd ask him - Brynbridge is a fine place for a boy his age. Maybe Lord Tarly would foster him - he's raised two fine sons."

She humphed. "You ask the King's squire what he thinks about his father before you consider sending Robin away to that brute!"

Samwell Tarly was conveniently away in the North, Jon noted. "If the opportunity arises. Why don't you get to know some of the southern ladies," he proposed. "If you wish to suggest somewhere else he can foster, I'll listen. But he will be fostered. That's my final word on the subject."

 

* * *

 

**Varys XI**

Renly Baratheon hadn't been willing to lend Viserys the services of one of his ships. Apparently he was under strict orders from both of his brothers to return to the Shivering Sea and recover a large number of Free Folk who had gathered at Hardhome and refused to go closer to the Wall.

Fortunately Ser Tyrion Lannister was more willing to be flexible. He'd brought his own galley and four others from the Lannisters' fleet to recover his uncle's sellsword company now that they'd finished putting Rhys Builtien on the throne of Pentos. At some point between the Bay of Pentos and the Bay of Seals the five hundred men ceased the pretense of selling their swords (or rather, their halberds) and swore them once again to King Robert.

The Crowslayer had been more than happy to divert north past Hardhome. "There might be another book in it," he'd noted cheerily. "Or at least some more chapters for the one I'm working on."

"You walked all the way across the true North?" Bronn had asked.

"Not all the whole way. I sailed some of it and rode an elk for a good part as well."

"What the hells is an elk?"

"It's like a stag but more so." Tyrion had held up both hands by his forehead, sticking out his fingers. "Huge horns."

He was less playful now, examining the shore through a far-eye. "That was a village," he said grimly. "But there's no one moving and at this hour they should be. The Free Folk can't afford to waste any resource - including daylight hours."

Varys tapped his fingers on the rail. "Those are the landmarks I recall," he said and looked over at Viserys to see if the younger man agreed.

His reply was a nod. "As far as I can tell from this angle. It's not as if we can fly up on dragons to see what it looks like from the sky."

Tyrion shook his head. "Going into the uttermost North following a dream. I always thought you were a rational man, Varys. I suppose your Targaryen ancestry had to show up somehow."

"You don't believe in following dreams, Ser Tyrion?"

"Only if they involve wine and whores." He closed up his far-eye. "That's why I agreed to head a trade delegation going to the Summer Isles once I get back to King's Landing. So, do you still want to be put ashore or has sanity broken out?"

Bronn looked suddenly hopeful, Varys noted. "I believe we've come too far to turn back."

"Not yet you haven't but once our boat leaves you on the beach you will have. Did you consider bringing a guide?"

"The only guides available were Free Folk," Viserys replied. "There are probably some who would be willing to return - Pentos seems like a strange land to them and I'd give it about another month before Prince Rhys has to deal with serious clashes between them and farmers who don't appreciate the planting of weirwoods and the incomprehension of paying for what you can take."

The fourth of their little party stroked his beard. "It's a little late now but now that I see the wilds you wish to enter, the thought of having someone who knows the area better is appealing."

"All the better to escape into it after they slit our throats and steal our supplies? The only ones who aren't militantly untrustworthy will be sticking with Mance Rayder and trying to make a go of settling the lands they've been granted."

Thoros yielded Varys' point gracefully. Bronn  had recommended hiring a fourth man for the trip and the R'hllorian priest came recommended as honest and reliable when sober. Varys had his reservations about the man's faith but options were limited and Thoros seemed genuinely interested once he heard that he'd be accompanying Prince Viserys into the lands of 'the Great Other'. Varys wasn't sure if the man's emphasis of the title was blatant flattery of the Targaryen or something else.

A boat was hoisted over the side of the Silence and the four of them climbed down, each carrying a pack. Four of Tyrion's sailors joined them to row the boat to shore and then back again.

Varys looked at the shore and shivered. What a dreadfully uncivilised looking land... and the Lannister was right. This really was his last chance to turn back. Illyrio had made his peace with the new regime since he had had the good fortune to become a Magister after the election of Prince Rhys and thus wasn't tainted by personal enmity. There seemed every chance that Varys could have done the same.

So why was he here?

It wasn't that he felt his great-grandfather's ambitions for Westeros. Even if the Iron Throne still existed, a eunuch could never sit upon it safely and neither Robert nor his brothers would ever allow him to be the power behind it.

Perhaps Viserys has the right of it, he thought with a look forwards at the knight. Right now the uttermost north of Westeros is the fulcrum of everything west of at least the Dothraki Sea. And I'm too much the meddler to be able to stay away from that. Too proud to accept irrelevance in the matter. And perhaps just too curious for my own good.

So I am the product of my sins, just like everyone else.

"Something amuses you?"

"Merely wondering what Robert Baratheon's feelings would be of learning I've returned to Westeros," he lied glibly.

"I am told the King of Westeros has led an army northwards. You may get the chance to see his face," pointed out Thoros.

"I'm not explicitly barred from returning." Varys thought about it for a moment. "It might go better if I had something useful to tell him though."

"If it's all the same to you, I'm hoping for a quiet walk in the woods where we meet no one until we're short on food and retreat to the wall."

"Since you get paid the same either way, Bronn, that's perfectly understandable." The boat crunched up against the sand and Varys swung himself over the side and into the shallow water. "I wouldn't suggest getting your hopes up though."


	30. Chapter 30

**Obara VI**

The Water Gardens were still the paradise for children that Obara remembered. Maron had barely waited for permission before he set off to paddle through the pools with other boys his age. Dorie was just old enough - and bold enough - to crawl into one if she was allowed to but not so much that Obara was sure the girl would be able to keep her head above water if she did, so a servant had been delegated to provide constant supervision.

Prince Doran wasn't slumped as he sat in his wicker chair looking out over the lush gardens... but Obara suspected that he wanted to be. A generation younger than Jon Arryn, he wore his years more heavily. Had losing Quentyn weighed so heavily upon him?

"Thank you for your efforts in King's Landing." He smiled at her, as he hadn't in years. "Trystane is excited about his opportunity to spend time at court and he wouldn't have that chance without the favour you've won with your husband's family."

"It wasn't precisely my pleasure to arrange it, but I'm glad Trystane is happy."

Doran nodded. "Robert needs all the support he can get and he isn't shy about rewarding those who stand with him. It will be a long time before we forget my sister or he forgets Tywin Lannister, but for all our sakes those events must be forgiven."

"The wights are so serious a threat?"

"The wights are not the threat. You asked the Maesters about the candles?"

"Maester Cressen suggested that you meant glass candles. I know my father studied at the Citadel - did he learn how to... I believe the word is 'scry'?"

Her uncle gave her an approving look. "He lacks the talent for it himself, but I am more - or perhaps less - fortunate. The Citadel has four such candles, artefacts of ancient Valyria the Maester's say. They obtained them a thousand years ago."

There was something about that statement which caught Obara's attention. It took her a moment to pin the idea down and her uncle gave her the time. "Nymeria's time."

"Indeed. It was she who brought those candles to Westeros, trophies from the long wars against the Freehold. Four of them paid for the neutrality of the Hightowers when Greydown Gardener tried to seize the west of Nymeria and Mors' newly united kingdom. But she did not gift them all she brought with her."

"What have you seen?"

Doran didn't respond directly. Instead he turned his head and scanned the gardens. Pointing, he singled out one of the women who were overseeing the children as they played. She had pale skin and coppery hair, not unlike that of Lysa Tully, and her gown was crimson.

"Who is she?"

"What do you know of R'hllor?"

Obara frowned. "Very little. A god worshiped in Essos. Associated with fire, if I'm not mistaken. Some ports in Westeros have small temples to cater to sailors from Essos."

"Then you know as much as most do in Westeros. A warrior-priest from Myr tried to convert Aerys the Mad, but was given little shrift. For all that, he was associated with the pyromancers and Robert had no time for the man. Melisandre is of the same faith, but she's from further east and studied in Asshai."

Like most in court, Obara had heard readings from Tyrion Lannister's account of his eastern voyages. She'd also read some for herself. "The city has a dark reputation."

"The Maesters prefer to maintain a monopoly of learning. Your teachers of their order would hardly speak well of a rival centre of lore." Doran shook his head. "She studied certain forms of magic and I invited her here to discuss certain matters of mutual interest."

"A threat that's worse than the wights?"

"The threat that lies behind them. It isn't wise to scry too far beyond the Wall. It is ever night there, and as she would put it, the night is dark and full of terrors." Her uncle reached for a small bottle with a trembling hand and poured a milky liquid into a thimble-sized cup.

Obara watched Doran drink and saw that when he put down the cup his hand was steady once more. "Medicine?" she asked.

"Magic always demands its price. Melisandre believes that the lands behind the Wall are the home... or a home... to what she calls the Great Other, a rival god to her own. One of darkness, ice and death."

"Something like the Others, of myth?" She twisted her lips. "As the wights are myths."

"Something like. The priests of R'hllor speak of a time when darkness covered the world and that it was defeated by a lone champion, Azor Ahai."

"The Long Night and the Last Hero?"

"Perhaps. After all these years, who can say? But the priests also say that the darkness will return - which sounds all too apt - and that Azor Ahai will come again to champion the light."

"Please tell me they don't mean Robert Baratheon."

Doran chuckled. "No, although I think from what I've seen that he's a good man. He may be able to defeat the wights but nothing I've seen suggests that he has a plan for handling the Others behind them. Melisandre feels that the reborn Azor Ahai may be the Prince Who Was Promised."

"Rhys Builtien?" she asked, sure that she must be mistaken.

"No, no. It's a prophecy the Targaryens brought with them from Valyria. Perhaps from the same dreamer who foresaw the Doom, but more likely older. Rhaegar thought once that he might be the prophesied prince but later Elia told me that he had decided it was his son, Aegon."

"Who is believed to be dead." She'd thought more than once about Robert Baratheon's words, in the castle on the Wall.

"Aerys would not permit him to be sent away when he dispatched Rhaella and Viserys to Dragonstone. He wanted Elia and her children as hostages to secure the loyalty of our House. But Varys knew there was no hope that the Targaryens could hold onto the city and arranged a substitution."

"So he's alive?"

"I am uncertain. It's been long enough that if he does live then he approaches manhood. If all of these theories are true then we may need him - and he may need us. After all, he must know nothing of Westeros and while he may be the one to lead us in time, there must be armies and kingdoms to be led - which is our responsibility."

Obara nodded. "Why are you telling me all this? You know it verges on treason."

"It's a delicate line we tread. I don't believe Robert Baratheon would begrudge some form of settlement at the end of the day if Westeros is preserved. However if anything were to happen to him, Stannis would surely be regent."

She didn't need him to expand on that. The two elder Baratheon brothers did their best to keep disagreements between them behind closed doors but as their goodsister, Obara was allowed behind that door. She'd once heard Robert tell Stannis that 'laws are made for men, not men for laws'. The Hand, having previously served as Master of Laws, had disagreed in strong terms with the sentiments behind that remark.

"So we need Robert alive and on the throne."

"And failing that we need some way of influencing his heir and his heir's regent."

Obara winced. "Stannis would defend his nephew's claim to the death."

"That's my own impression. Is there anyone he listens to?"

"Princess Aemma, sometimes. The Master of Ships and the Grand Maester are as close to him as anyone but I don't think I've ever seen his mind be swayed by them on what he considers a matter of principle."

Doran looked at her with sunken eyes. "Gods preserve us from honourable men."

I've been in King's Landing too long, that made perfect sense to me, thought Obara.

* * *

  
**Alliser II**

Hardhome reminded Alliser of the winter towns he'd seen in the North - those parts of it south of the Wall, he corrected himself. A settlement that was four-fifths abandoned in summer but in winter was packed cheek-to-jowl with barely civilised clans who loathed each other and co-existed only because the stark alternative was being driven out to die in the cold by everyone neutral to their specific feuds.

With access to fishing grounds stretching from Skagos to however far north one cared to risk, the little port was a relatively attractive choice in a hard winter. It was also probably the second biggest source of Wildlings circumventing the Wall. Alliser had seen records of the Night's Watch launching 'rangings' that had been nothing less than invasions of the little town to smash it flat and kill every Wildling they found.

What he was looking at right now would have been the worst nightmare of any veteran of those centuries distant battles. There were more Wildlings in Hardhome than could possibly be crammed onto the Baratheon ships and more tribes were still trickling in.

"And for once we're helping them go south. What a world."

"What was that?"

Alliser shook his head at the question from the ship's captain. "Just talking to myself."

"They say that's the first sign of the North getting to you."

"For some of us," he said sharply, "It's the only way to get intelligent conversation."

The captain - lowborn, like many of the men raised to positions in what was now considered to be the royal fleet - was wise enough to back away. Alliser bared his teeth. He remembered the Targaryen's royal fleet and it had been led by men from the noble houses of Crackclaw Point and the shores of Blackwater Bay. Raised to know the sea and to serve their kings.

The new dynasty's men were not of that quality. Oh, not bad as seamen, to the best of his ability to judge, but they lacked the will to fight, to command, that would have been instinctive in their predecessors. If the captain had stood up to Thorne then he might have deserved some respect for it but he'd shown how small he was.

It doesn't matter, Thorne told himself. Seeing the faces and hearing the voices over the last few years had taken him back to the days when he was a knight of the Crownlands, sworn to the true Kings of Westeros. But now he wore the black of the Night's Watch and that, surely, was enough. It had to be.

"More Wildlings coming out of the trees," called the lookout from the mast high above.

At least someone was doing their job. Alliser grabbed some of the lower rigging and hauled himself high enough to have something of a view. He could barely see a slight movement around the sides of the town and decided against climbing further up to try to see more.

The fleet's commander was ashore trying to negotiate which tribes would take ship first. Given the certainty that at least some of them would need to wait for the ships to return, every tribal leader was in agreement on only one thing: each of them wanted their tribe aboard first.

"And this is just the sane ones." Those who refused to admit fear of the dead rising and fighting, those who thought they could bargain with the dead and the... Others...

Those tribes weren't here. Very likely they were bolstering the armies of the Others that must shortly try to storm the Wall.

And still there were more Wildlings here than could fit aboard Renly's ships. He'd carried tribes across the Narrow Sea four times now and still more of the tribes were trickling eastwards, following after Mance Rayder's call. The numbers were worrying.

"Captain!"

He looked up at the masthead at the shout, but it was the captain who responded. "What's the matter?"

"It's the new arrivals! They're attacking!"

Alliser groaned. Another damn skirmish between the tribes.

"There are thousands of them!"

With a grimace, Alliser pulled himself further up the rigging. The outer ring of Hardhome was hard to make out in detail but it was clear that something was going on. Once he reached the lookout, the sailor wordlessly handed over a far-eye.

It took him a moment to stabilise himself so he wouldn't fall as he held the far-eye and then another to point the device towards the Wildling settlement.

There was definitely fighting, wildlings falling on each other. He couldn't tell one from another, it was hard with no banners or livery, but the fighting was certainly driving deeper and deeper into the town. A flicker of light drew him to look at a fire. Wildings were standing back to back around it, wielding logs pulled out of their cooking fire in lieu of any other weapons...

No, they had weapons.

A chill went through Alliser. He turned his view towards the edge of the camp, looking for the first dead. There were many visible bodies laying still on the trampled mud. He could be wrong, he hoped. The battle on the Milkywater hadn't given him anything much to compare to...

A body clambered upright and made its way to join the attack.

The knight wanted to believe that it was just someone who had been wounded and lying still to gather his breath. But he didn't believe that. Looking back at the fire he found the circle of defenders were still holding out. The attackers weren't approaching them directly. Instead, despite the crude weapons being used in defense, they were standing off and throwing darts and slingstones at the wildlings.

"It's them." He slapped the far-eye against the sailor's chest, not stopping to see if the valuable glass was secure before he released it and scrambled down the rigging. He almost lost his grip but that didn't matter. "Get us alongside the shore," he ordered. "We need to get as many people as we can aboard."

"But Prince Renly hasn't..."

Alliser hit the man and then regretted it a moment later. The captain was sprawled out on the deck and wasn't going to be doing anything until he woke. "Listen," he snapped to the rest of the crew, speaking with all the authority he could muster. "The wights are here. Anyone we get aboard now is the last we can get away from them. Now get this ship moving!"

The crew rushed to work and Alliser turned towards the shoreline. Gods dammit. And now I have to go into that to try to drag the Usurper's brother out of this mess. Where did I go wrong with my life?

* * *

  
**Olenna XI**

She'd stopped working outside. It wasn't just colder, there was the ever-present temptation to look North and wonder when the next raven would arrive with bad news.

Then again, not all problems lay in the North.

"Maybe I should have married the Targaryen after all. Aerys was mad but Mace doesn't seem to have any more caution."

Olenna picked up her stick and smacked it on the floor of her chamber. In response, her manservants entered the room and one pulled back her chair so the other could help her to her feet. Without a word to them she began to walk out of the Rose Tower. "Boy," she called to the page. "Tell the Master of Laws I will be visiting him as soon as I can get to his chambers."

The boy ducked his head. "Your ladyship is on her way to meet the Master of Laws in his chambers?" Once she had jerked her chin in acknowledgement he ran, not directly for the Falcon Tower but to the nearer office of the functionary whose sole job was to know where the entire Small Council and royal family were at any given point. One of Robert's innovations and a sensible one since if Jon Arryn wouldn't be available at his chambers to meet with her then she'd have a page sent to advise her of that before she had to ascend any stairs.

Stafford Lannister had had the gall to call the system 'spying upon him', which had led to firm words from the King that membership of the Small Council was a responsibility and not a privilege.

Having walked around the grand balcony, Olenna was feeling decidedly creaky. Another page was waiting at the entrance of the Falcon Tower. "Lady Tyrell, Prince Arryn is meeting with the High Septon in his chambers," he advised her.

"What does that fool want now?"

The boy hesitated.

"I'm not asking you to instruct me, child. Run along." Olenna eyed the stairs with disfavour and felt her hips protesting as she reached the first landing. With a groan she had her manservants make a chair of their arms and carry her up the rest. At least Robert had had the sense to have his builders make the stairs broad enough for three to pass abreast, not the tight, defensible spirals of so many keeps.

"Lady Tyrell, may I have a moment of your time?"

"At my age, Lysa, one has only so much time of anyone."

The red-headed princess of the Vale, curtseyed. "But the Faith names it the duty of the aged to instruct their juniors."

"Hmmph. I suppose your husband will be busy with the windbag for a little longer." Olenna leant on her stick once the servants had put her down.

"It's about my son, Robin."

"The one with the nightmares. Sensible boy. Those who aren't disturbed in these times are either lying or fools."

Lysa nodded. "Yes, I agree. It's just... My prince would send him away, to be fostered in Horn Hill."

"A natural choice. Randyll Tarly has the King's favour and a son around Robin's age." And he might not be as dim as Lysa, or at least as partial to her elder son. Tarly certainly hadn't spoiled his own elder son, the boy had been a nervous wreck when Robert took him as a squire. Well, Lysa wasn't entirely witless if she'd noticed that.

"Yes, well." The other woman plucked at her skirts. "Lord Randyll would be absent often with matters being as they are. I was wondering if you might suggest another lord who might be willing to foster Robin. Someone less likely to ride off to war."

"Hmm. You don't want him going to the Reach." If Lysa knew what Olenna did then she might have a point. Still, even a fool might be lucky.

"I would prefer to keep my son closer to home."

"Well further south is good in the winter. Lord Penrose is of my own age, too old for venturing North, and his heir seems to have some favour with Robert, serving him as castellan at Storm's End."

"I will send a raven to him then. My thanks for your assistance."

That might be the only thanks she'd get from an Arryn this day, Olenna thought as she walked on into the meeting chamber Jon used for his work as Master of Law. Roose Bolton had preferred a north-looking suite below the Wolf Tower, nearer to his own quarters. To an odd extent she missed the quiet Northerner.

"Ah, Lady Olenna. I take it you've heard the news from Starry Sept?"

Starry Sept? "It's the news from Highgarden I wish to discuss," she said, glancing at the High Septon. The fat man looked genuinely concerned - not just the mask of benevolence he more often affected.

"Highgarden too? What is going on in the Reach?"

"A question I wish to answer. And your position, High Septon?"

"It is a most profound division among the Most Devout, my lady. The Maester's decision not to place the wight sent to them on display has regrettably given their position more credibility with the smallfolk of the Reach than it has here where anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear knowst that we face a most dire challenge."

Olenna twisted her lips sourly. So some of the Faith were in denial that the dead were rising. How joyous. "And it seems I may at last be able to explain some of the difficulties Lord Tarly has had in bringing the arms of the Reach to bear upon the North."

Jon rubbed his jaw. "If you'll excuse me, I suspect that the answer does your son no credit."

"Alas," she said drily. "It seems that while he is no longer Warden of the South, my fat flower of a son remains High Marshal of the Reach and has called all the lords loyal to him to a tournament at Highgarden, to display their readiness for war."

"Instead of actually marching to the ports where they can be sent to war."

"Summer knights," she said drily. "It would be giving him undue credit to consider this grand strategm on his part but between those Lords who have answered his call and those who are obedient to Lord Tarly's instructions..."

"And those who are hesitant to commit to either?"

"Quite."

Jon lowered his head to his hands. "So the Reach is on the brink of civil war?"

"Indeed. We have, perhaps, two angles of approach. I would prefer to present the situation to Prince Stannis with solutions to offer."

"You have a grandson in the north."

"Loras is with the King, yes. And his goodbrother Edmure also. A reminder of family obligation may sway Mace - although the Faith's division is of concern."

"And the second?"

Olenna gestured towards the various books and folios of law shelved along some war. "Find or devise some legal basis to undermine his authority as High Marshal."

"Truly these are dark days when a mother and son are divided thus," the High Septon pronounced.

"As I was reminded recently, the Faith names it the duty of the aged to instruct their juniors."

* * *

  
**Varys XII**

The trees on the hill carried a heavy weight of snow on their branches. Varys had long since ceased to shiver at the cold. Over the years he'd carefully cultivated an appearance of softness. Sparse meals as they marched inland had pared away fat that might have helped to insulate him and - unlike the other three - he couldn't cultivate a beard to shield his face.

"This is it?" asked Bronn as they looked up at the hill.

Standing in the lee of a tree, Viserys tugged back the hood of his fur coat and brushed back his tangled hair. "Aye," he said thoughtfully and then looked over at Varys.

The dreams had not ceased as they travelled and the eunuch felt that every detail was engraved on his memory. "This is the place."

"Well I hope it's everything you dreamed of."

Thoros spoke up before Bronn could add more gibes to that remark. The priest had come to be something of a peacemaker amongst them, sometimes necessary as the conditions wore upon them. "Very good. Then what now."

Viserys dragged his eyes away from the hillside. "Now we make camp. It's too late for more. We can explore it in the morning."

They'd done this often enough to fall into a pattern. Thoros began laying a fire with wood they'd gathered as they walked. Bronn and Viserys looked for branches they could use as a windbreak around them and Varys - accepting their packs - took out a shovel and started clearing the ground next to the largest tree in the vicinity. Camping surrounded by snow was one thing, camping on top of snow while it melted due to your fire was the sort of mistake you made only once.

Bronn's sword slithering out of its scabbard wasn't part of that pattern. "We're not alone," he hissed.

Viserys had Dawn in his hands a moment later and Thoros drew his own sword, pulling together into a knot surrounding but not crowding Varys. He'd never been a swordsman, not like Illyrio. The crossbow was another matter however and he dropped everything but that, putting one foot in the stirrup and pulling back the string until he could lock it into place.

"You will not need those," a woman's voice advised them from the shadows.

Varys tried to pick out where she was with his eyes and who she was with his ears. "You'll pardon us for not taking that on faith, my lady."

"I am not your lady." The voice was high and sweet, the accent unfamilar - which was grating as her tone was not.

"Very well." Viserys didn't lower the white-bladed sword though. "But telling us who you aren't isn't very useful. I am Ser Viserys Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, did it still exist. May I have your name?"

"We do not name ourselves as you do."

Movement caught his eye and a figure with the stature of a child stood beside one of the weirwoods. In the evening light it was hard to make out details. Varys refrained from slotting the quarrel into his crossbow. How many others might be there, as yet unseen?

"That which floats in wind and water..." She hummed deep in her throat. "Leaf, if you must."

"Leave?"

"Leaf." Viserys released one hand from his hilt and pointed at the cloak of leaves that the girl wore. "Like those."

Bronn nodded in understanding. "What brings a child out here?"

"She's no child." Thoros pointed with his free hand. "Look at her eyes."

Obligingly, Leaf stepped closer and gazed at them with eyes that were too large... and the last sun fell through the trees, the gold and green pupils contracted to slits, cat-like.

"A child of the forest."

"Your ancestors were also fond of names. That is one that they gave us." She sounded unafraid. "One was expected, not four."

Varys cleared his throat. "Two of us dreamed," he said almost apologetically. "And these are not safe lands to walk."

"There are no safe lands to walk." She looked around at the beginnings of their camp. "Our caves are warmer and safer. Follow me."

As she turned and pattered away up the slope, the four men exchanged looks. Viserys shrugged and returned Dawn to its scabbard. "This is what we came here for."

"Speak for yourself." But Bronn took up his own pack and they followed.

There was a cleft in the hillside, screened from sight by a pair of weirwood trees. Deeper within, the sides closed in above and they were following her into the darkness of a cave, just as promised. She held a torch and Thoros also furnished himself with one. Save for that there was no light.

Shadows from the two torches brought the walls to life. Varys paused and reached out to touch one of the sinuous shapes, relieved that it didn't move under his hand like a serpent. Wood, and white if he saw truly. "Weirwood roots. This entire hill is a mass of roots."

"More than this hill," her voice came back to him, briefly out of view in the narrow turns of the passages. "All Westeros rests upon the bones of the trees. Stone is barren alone."

"There are few weirwoods south of the Neck."

"I have seen where they were burned. The roots -" Varys came around the corner and saw she had paused and was looking back at him with eyes that seemed to glow. "- ran deeper than the fires could reach."

"These aren't just roots." Bronn knelt and picked up a fragment from the floor. It was bone, broken underfoot and too small to have been a human's.

"Roots are bones and bones are roots. All bear the flesh in the end."

Viserys caught Varys' eye and pointed to a small niche in the wall, about rib-high. Varys dropped to one knee and looked inside. There was a skull inside, one too large for a human. "I can't say that I admire the decoration."

"The lands of other peoples make my heart weary also," she told him in sympathy that surprised him and then she led them onwards, and deeper.

Down a sleep slope they descended. Varys guessed that they must be hundreds of feet below the top of the hill. It was warmer here - not enough to discard their furs but enough to loosen them. Water rushed ahead of them and further below. Leaf raised her torch and he could see that the ground ended in a chasm spanned by a single narrow bridge, little more than a root that curved above what must be an underground river.

"We go on?" asked Thoros, raising his own torch.

Leaf shook her head and gestured back and to one side.

Viserys turned first and gasped. Bronn swore. Varys found that he did not, at first, have words.

Roots curved down the wall of the cave and amid them rested a man.

Like everything else down here, all was ebony and ivory. Black clothes, once fine but now wortn through. Skin as pale as parchment no longer covered all of the bone beneath. Some of the smaller roots pierced through what should be flesh, one even extending from an empty eye-socket. Hair as pale as snow was so entangled in the roots that Varys was unsure where they began and ended - or if they did.

"A dead man?" asked Thoros. "Or... it is said that here the dead walk."

The one intact eye opened and it was red as blood. "Walk?" a dry voice murmured. The lips worked as if struggling to remember how to form words. "No, I no longer walk."

"You aren't paying me enough for this," Bronn said accusingly, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Thoros held his torch like a sword. "Are you the Other?"

"No." Viserys voice was very steady. "No, he's a Targaryen."

The features, now that Varys looked closer, did share something of the Valryian look.

"I did not bear that name."

"Rivers."

"Yes," the pale figure agreed. "Greetings nephews."

"You said one." Leaf's voice held a note of accusation.

"You called for one, singer. Our bargain is not ended, I need another."

She hesitated. "Aye. Our bargain remains." She dropped the torch she bore into the chasm and vanished into the shadows. Varys could hear her feet on the root of the bridge and then nothing.


	31. Chapter 31

**Viserys XIV**

Brynden Rivers, bastard son of Aegon IV. Hand of the King to two of his Targaryen nephews, the man who defeated the first three Blackfyre Rebellions. Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Kinslayer, oathbreaker, sorcerer... The Bloodraven had been all these things, a legend in his own lifetime. A lifetime that had been longer than any of those in the cave had guessed.

“There were three of us once,” the old man told them.

His voice was steadier now but there was no colour in his shrunken cheeks. Viserys had soaked a scrap of linen in the last of their wine and wrung it out into the Bloodraven’s mouth. The first taste of the vine in almost fifty years, which even Bronn felt deserved a little charity.

“Aegor, Shiera and I. Children of a debased bloodline, but one that could be traced back to the dragonlords of old. We wanted the old power, the old majesty...”

“The old magic?” asked Varys with a bitter voice.

“Yes. But we looked for it in different places. Shiera was born of the east and she looked for it there.” There was a strange note to that dry voice and it took Viserys a moment to realise that his ancient kinsman was wistful. “Aegor and I shared a heritage in the old blood of the Riverlands.”

“His mother was a Bracken and yours a Blackwood. An old feud.”

The Bloodraven dismissed that cause. “Those houses have wed as often as they have warred. I looked to that bloodline while Aegor thought our half-brother Daemon’s bloodline, being Targaryen on both sides, could be better honed. We quarrelled.”

Varys arched his brow. “And you killed Daemon Blackfyre.”

“Yes, but that was politics. You would have done the same, in my shoes.”

The eunuch frowned but said nothing.

“So you gave up on dragons?” asked Viserys. “The dragons were the heritage of Valyria. The Targaryens brought them here out of the east.”

“The Targaryens were neither the first nor the greatest dragonlords to leave Valyria for Westeros. The Andals and their Maesters write the histories and they have no fondness for dragons.” The old man’s eye narrowed. “There are records in the old runes if you look hard enough. The ancient wars in the south-west, were as much a dance of dragons as our own civil war when your namesake died. Oldtown bore another name once, a Valyrian name for the House who had sailed there out of the east. The losers in some power-struggle I presume. Another line – kinsmen or rivals, the details are obscure – settled in the west of what we call Dorne.”

“I have never heard of this!”

“Ancient history. Who knows what the sword you bear could tell if it had lips.”

Viserys touched the hilt of Dawn. “They say it was forged from a fallen star.”

“Aye, in the age of heroes, from which we have only those tales the Maesters chose to record. And for the most part we lack those they discarded.”

“Knowledge is power,” mused Varys. “And who shares power?”

“Then you thought the First Men bloodlines might be sufficient to hatch dragons once more.”

Viserys got the impression that if Brynden could have shrugged then he would have. “They had affinities for other creatures once. Wolves. Bats. Bears. Why not dragons? Experiments with fire and the spilling of blood yielded nothing. Summerhall should have shown that – your great-grandsire was ill-advised to make that attempt.”

“You left the Wall long before Summerhall burned,” protested Viserys. “That was the day my brother was born, forty years ago.”

“My body is confined here but my spirit is not. Do you imagine your dreams are the only ones I have touched over the years?”

“That’s a fearsome gift.” Thoros had constructed a small fire so now his hands were free. “But why would you choose to imprison yourself here?”

Bloodraven stared at the priest. “You, I did not invite.”

“Answer him,” Viserys told him imperiously.

The eye flickered to him. “You trust in this man?”

“More than I trust you, right now.”

“Clever boy. Cleverer than your brother, at any count.” He closed his eye for a moment. “The singers know life as few others can imagine it. The very fact I live when others my age are dust is evidence of this. I offered them my talents as a seer, in return for the lore that might permit dragons to be born once more.”

“The bargain you spoke of.”

“Yes.”

“You told Leaf that it wasn’t done.”

“I believe that I have untangled those secrets, but until the egg is hatched, I cannot know if I have the answers.”

“My egg broke.” Varys fiddled with his sleeves, which were too close cut for him to tuck his fingers inside.

“Yes. The gift lies predominantly within the female line. A man may ride a dragon, but never hatch one.”

“Dragons have hatched in the cradles of princes before now.”

“In those cases I believe they were truly hatched by their mother or their sister. The egg of a dragon should hatch after it has been nested by a female dragon. In the wilds, only the mother would do this. Other dragons would destroy the eggs as potential rivals. The ancient Valyrians somehow conferred this draconic nature upon them. So however thin it may flow in the veins, there is dragon in us. And our sisters and daughters may perhaps have enough of the blood to hatch an egg.”

Viserys clenched his fists. “Daenerys.”

“Aye. Targaryen parents and grandparents. A great-grandmother of my mother’s house. A great-great-grandmother whose lineage may trace back to other dragonlords. Her mother failed us but she may succeed. Even the Usurper may suspect.”

“Of him I would believe it,” Varys noted. “What dreams he must have.”

Bloodraven fell silent.

“Where does he fall in your schemes?” asked Viserys, suspiciously. “Are you in league with him?”

“I would not wish to be his Hand, but nor do I despise him,” the old man said slowly. “His dreams are not those of other men.”

“So you find him as confusing as the rest of us do?”

Very reluctantly, the Bloodraven grated, “Aye.”

* * *

  
**Cassana IV**

Daenerys was practically nesting in the little tower up above the Crown. Cassana didn't think that the other girl had left since Uncle Stannis had told them father wanted them to try to hatch dragons. Cassana brought their meals inside and they ate at the table. At night, Cassana went back to her chamber but Daenerys slept here, with blankets wrapped around her and the three eggs she'd chosen to try to hatch.

"Mother's worried about you. Are you sure you don't want to come down for dinner?"

Daenerys shook her head, turning a page of the book she'd been reading and scratching a note into the waxboard on the table next to the tome. "I think I felt something from this egg," she said, running one hand over the smallest of the three, the black one with red threads across its surface. Father's notes said it was like lava.

"Well why not bring it with you?"

"But what if I drop it?" Daenerys placed the egg in her lap and seemed to curl up a little around it. "Father's trusting me to do this for him, it's a huge responsibility."

Cassana winced. One of the maids had been bringing buckets of water up the dome to supplement water from the rainbutt - necessary so that Daenerys could bathe - and had dropped the bucket. Eddard had told her with relish that what was left of the bucket had been found right at the bottom of the hill.

"I know, but father would want you to look after yourself as well."

There was a knock on the door. Three sharp knocks, in fact, which meant it was probably Uncle Stannis - although since he would allow no one else through the door, that made it an easy guess.

She went to the door, leaving Daenerys at the table, and fished the key out of her belt to unlock it.

Stannis nodded in greeting as she did so and pushed the door closed behind him. "No dragons yet?"

"There's still so much we don't know," Cassana said, with the uncomfortable feeling that making excuses to her uncle always gave her.

He grunted. "If it was easy, the Targaryens would never have lost their dragons."

"I promise I will hatch them if I can," Daenerys said hotly.

Uncle looked at her for a moment and then reached out and touched the top of her head with one hand. "You are a good girl," he observed.

"Are you alright, uncle?" Cassana thought that he looked tired.

"The Others are presumed to be raising the dead to assault the Wall, half the Faith of Seven are preaching a holy crusade and the other half have declared them heretics, the Reach is on the brink of civil war and your father's not here so everyone is complaining to me. Oh, and the Maesters have torn a wight apart and don't have any new ideas on how to stop them except wildfire."

"I should think that would work. Wights burn, don't they?"

"According to Lord Selmy and Mance Rayder." He made a face. "Oh, and the Lord Commander has sent a raven saying he wants his ranger back."

Cassana was tempted to ask if they couldn't keep him - she was sure that many a lady of court had swooned at Rayder over the years. He'd shown himself a fine sword and archer at the royal tournaments, and there had been all sorts of sly comments about his skilled fingers on the lute, which she was sure were a joke she didn't quite understand yet. "Isn't he still in Pentos?"

"Yes, so why they're bothering me and not Builtien..." Uncle made a dismissive gesture. "And yes, wildfire would burn them, but that's something any fool could have said. Wildfire burns everything."

"Yes, it's mentioned several time in the books," Daenerys said brightly. "Um... let's see..." She started shuffling books on the table. "Archmaester Gyldayn's book was..." The girl reached across the table and dislodged the egg from her lap. "Ah...!"

Cassana and Stannis both rushed forwards as, struggling to recover the egg, Daenerys instead fumbled it as her chair tipped backwards.

Stannis, being much larger, got their first and caught Daenerys before her head hit the flagstones of the floor. Cassana, being much smaller, stumbled aside and having redirected her efforts to the egg, didn't quite manage that either. Her fingers just barely brushed it and the black and red egg landed in the hearth.

"Oh gods!" Daenerys exclaimed.

"Do be careful." Stannis set her upright. "Well, does that mean the egg is -"

There was a sharp crack from the fireplace.

Four blue eyes and two violet ones snapped to the fire.

The egg fractured again, with the same sound.

Cassana was vaguely aware that Daenerys was murmuring "please-please-please" in High Valyrian, as if it were a magic spell.

"Is that..." Stannis seemed hesitant to believe.

With another crack, the egg came apart into two halves. No longer aligned it was now clearly a shell rather than solid through. To a breathless audience, a head poked out - black-scaled, although as it elevated, Cassana could see a crimson throat.

"By the gods!"

The girls looked at each other and then rushed to the other two eggs that Daenerys had been nesting with. Before Stannis had fetched the poker to try to get the remains of the egg away from the newborn dragon, both girls had rolled another egg into the fireplace.

* * *

  
**Varys XIII**

Compared to Pentos or King's Landing, the cave wasn't actually all that warm, but after more than a week of walking through the wilds of the true North, it was warm enough. With Bloodraven increasingly hoarse, the group had retreated along this side of the cave to make some kind of camp. None of them wanted to sleep under the old man's eye.

It felt as if he had barely closed his eyes when he felt a impact against a face, the brush of feathers.

Varys jerked away, one hand wiping across his face to guard against a bird that wasn't there. There was no light, Thoros' torch had ceased to burn, but for this reason they all carried phosphor matches - an export of the alchemists of King's Landing. And there was someone moving in the darkness.

Moving his hands quietly, he drew a dagger from its sheath and the packet of matches from his belt pouch under the furs of his bedroll. Then with a single convulsive move he sat up, shrugging the furs aside and striking the first match to come to hand against the hilt of the dagger.

The match lit up the surrounding area and Varys saw a slight figure standing over Thoros' bedroll, a short dagger dripping with blood in one hand.

Crying out in alarm, the eunuch threw himself across the little camp, not even coming upright before he buried the dagger in the chest of the assassin. Green-gold eyes were still narrowing to slits from the sudden light when they dulled and the singer... the Child of the Forest... slumped against him in death, barely even whimpering.

"What?" Thoros rolled aside, shaking aside his own sleep and reaching for his sword. "What's going on... Varys?"

Releasing his own dagger, Varys took the other from Leaf's hands. At least he throught it was Leaf - he had no other of her kind to compare to. Obsidian, more crudely crafted than those that King Robert handed out freely as gifts to those who went to the Wall. And the blood on it...

The usually vigilant Bronn hadn't risen, he saw as he raised the match higher. And Viserys' bedroll was empty.

"Where's the prince?"

"I don't know." Varys dropped the dagger and reached down to check the mercenary's throat. He wasn't surprised when his hand touched blood. "Bronn is dead. It seems the singers have decided not to tolerate our presence."

The priest-knight turned in a circle, looking in all directions as far as he could. In the darkness that wasn't far. "I don't think he went willingly. He wouldn't have left his sword. And how could he have been taken without our being woken?"

"An excellent deduction and a sensible question." Varys lifted the scabbard of Dawn and slung it across his shoulders. He wasn't sure he could wield it, but Viserys would sulk terribly if it was left behind. "Make a light and gather our most essential gear. I believe I will ask a certain raven about this."

Thoros stared at him on the flickering light of the match and then nodded sharply. He thrust his sword, point first, into the roots and bones beneath them. "We live in strange times."

"All times are strange," Varys said, who had found this generally to be true. He paused as the other man lit a match and then walked back in the direction of Bloodraven.

The pale figure lay still in the weirwood. "You live then. I am pleased."

Varys considered the situation and then reached back and drew Dawn awkwardly. Really, who would fight with something like this? "I do not believe we have time for extended question and answers. Volunteer relevant information or I will end you."

The aged bastard coughed, a hacking, dry sound. It took a moment for Varys to realise he was laughing. "That is nothing I fear, Blackfyre. But if you would end me there is a better blade by my left side."

The euuch glared at him and then poked at the black cloth that had once garbed the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He found that the withered form had folds of cloth loose around it and that beneath one such fold was the hilt of a sword.

A familiar hilt.

"Dark Sister. I had wondered where Visenya's sword might have rested but Viserys had more questions than I." He sheathed Dawn, having to unsling the scabbard to do so, then took hold of the hilt. The ancient scabbard came apart as he pulled the valyrian steel blade from it. "Answers then."

"Cassana Baratheon dreams of dragons born. My pact with the singers is done and they owe me nothing now."

"One of them slit Bronn's throat. I killed her."

"That is no great triumph. The singers were never as warlike as we men. That is why they made the Walkers to fight us for them."

Varys paled. "The Walkers? The Others are the servants of the Children of the Forest? The myths say that that they fought with the First Men against them. Is that another lie?"

Bloodraven made a non-committal noise. "History becomes legends. Legends myths and then myths forgotten or rendered into stories for children. The tales tell of a long war between men and singers for control of Westeros. In truth there were many wars and many times of peace between them. The Long Night was a masterstroke. If the Others had won the singers would have been rid of my ancestors, but as they failed, the singers won the benefits of being on the winning side."

"Then they could have wights all around us!" exclaimed Varys.

"No. They lost control over their creations long since. The Others follow their own path now and there are few singers left." He shook his head. "You are armed and warned. Move now and you will be able to leave without their interference."

"What about Viserys."

The bloody eye stared at him. "Gone. Don't trouble yourself further with him. You recall what I told you of dragons? Take it to King's Landing. Daenerys may be mother of dragons but she lacks the lore. Without that guidance the dragons may be lost again. Wed her to the Baratheon heir and breed up a new dynasty of dragonlords."

"I don't recall entering your service."

"We both know you cannot aspire to the crown. But you can be the power behind it."

"Or I could make Viserys the King. Breed the blood back on itself as other generations of our House have."

"The dragon's blood is weak in that one." Bloodraven's eye half-closed. "But as that wanes, the old blood has waxed. He will be my heir, Blackfyre. Now get you hence."

Varys replied in the gutter tongue of his youth and then jabbed the tip of Dark Sister into the crimson eye, piercing the brain behind it. He twisted the blade to be sure of slaying the ancient seer and then had to brace one foot against brittle bones to pull the sword free.

"Let's keep this between the two of us," he told the corpse. "No one trusts a kinslayer, after all."

When he returned to the camp Thoros was sitting, pale-faced on a stuffed pack. The reason was clear... an evidently irritated Bronn was hastily putting his pack back in order.

"I don't think I can take more shocks today," Varys observed with a searching look at Thoros.

"You think you had it bad? I woke up in middle of this fool doing his funeral rite on me," the mercenary rasped. "Took ten years off my life."

The priest shrugged helplessly and spread his hands.

Varys took a deep breath. "An honest mistake in the darkness, my friend. You'd been slashed across the thoat and we thought you were dead."

"I would have been if he'd set me alight!" Bronn shrugged on his pack. "Where did you get that sword?"

"It was Bloodraven's," Varys answered, not wanting to get into the whole history of the blade.

"I don't suppose he needs it. Do you know how to use it?"

"I'm not entirely inexperienced." Varys grabbed his own pack and saw that some of the contents had been removed in favor of some of the more necessary of those from Viserys'. He wasn't pleased about having his possessions gone through but there was little choice. "They cannot have carried him across the bridge so he must be this side of the river."

"Towards the entrance?"

"No... I believe they want to entangle him into the weirwoods, like Bloodraven." Varys realised his match was almost expired and tossed it into the river, lighting another by the light of the one Thoros held. "I saw no signs of anyone carrying a body towards Lord Rivers' tree so they must have gone the other way."

"Seems sensible." Bronn laced his pack and slung it over his shoulder. "We'll need better light than these matches though. It would be too easy to get turned around down here and then we might be lost forever."

"I think I... I believe R'hllor can provide for us there." Thoros lifted his sword and held it level upon his palms as he prayed to his god.

Varys watched suspiciously and saw a flicker of flames rolling along the upper surface of the weapon. Heedless of what should have been burning heat, Thoros watched the flames rise until the entire sword blazed like a torch and then moved his hands - entirely unburned, not even scorched - to hold the hilt.

"It's a nice trick. How long will it last?"

Thoros looked at Bronn and there was something unsettling about his eyes. "R'hllor will give us light in the darkness, Bronn. Have faith in him."

"Faith in your god would be easier if I had more faith in his follower."

"You are correct, I have not been the best of priests." The Myrishman bowed his head. "But in amending that we should pursue our taken companion, should we not."

Bronn and Varys followed the flaming sword into the darkness.

Viserys had not been taken far. There were child-like shadows around the weirwood he was laid against, but they fled when faced with the fire and steel carried by the three men. Not cowardice, Varys thought. Just prudence. Standing and fighting would simply get them slaughtered. No, the singers would retreat into the darkness and return by stealth. They weren't fighting for glory after all.

It amused the eunuch slightly to think that his current adversaries were more akin to him than they were to the prideful Westerosi lords and knights. Still, Bloodraven had been right. It would be best to leave swiftly.

The princeling could only have been laid against the weirwood for a short while but roots were curled around his wrists. So his compliance had not been assumed. Varys tested the sharpness of Valyrian steel against the weirwood and found it equal to the task.

"What!" Viserys started awake as Bronn backhanded him roughly across the face. "Who... oh."

"We have no time for explanations," Varys hissed. "Can you stand? Run?"

The younger man needed their help to take to his feet but once there he didn't fall. "I believe so. I saw things... we have to leave."

"Yes." Varys unslung Dawn. "Here, this is yours."

"In trust, yes." Viserys eyes locked with his and their hue seemed more crimson than violet. A trick of the light perhaps. "Gods..."

"Yes, we're in danger. I know, we need to get to the Wall."

"You don't understand." It turned out Viserys could indeed run. "I saw the Others. Ice is their tool. They can do... amazing things with it."

"The Wall's held them back for centuries, hasn't it?"

Viserys shook his head. "Ice."

The cold Varys felt had nothing to do with being in the North. "It wasn't there to stop them at all. We have to run."

"We are running."

"Faster! Run faster!"

* * *

  
**Alliser III**

There was a thick cloud over Eastwatch. Alliser paced back and forth across the deck of the ship, snarling at any of the sailors who crossed his path.

Only Renly's ship of the fleet had been carrying any ravens. The carrack had been alongside one of Hardhome's fishing docks when the end came and hundreds of Wildlings had clambered aboard, cut the anchor and forced the terrified crew to put out to sea despite all the warnings.

It was horrifyingly easy to overload even a large and well built ship. The carrack had wallowed as it hit the water beyond the limited protection of the fishing habour and the wildlings had panicked. From what those who had been watching had said, the decks had been so packed it was impossible for the crew to adjust the sails or shift ballast.

It was only a matter of time wind and wave tilted the Royal Stag over and the screaming Wildlings had crowded towards the lee-side, adding their weight to the incline. Water flooded over the side and by the time the fleet withdrew the upturned hull was adrift, only a handful of the survivors clinging to driftwood.

Alliser's efforts to get ashore and find Prince Renly had been hobbled by avoiding the same fate. He'd been in no mood to stop the sailors when they loosed arrows at any of the wildling survivors of the wreck who tried to get aboard.

They did have some wildlings aboard, but it was mostly women and children. A towering tribal leader had managed to rally those of fighting age to hold the docks. Alliser didn't have much time for wildlings, but he'd give the man credit for holding that line until the giants arrived.

A line in the annals of the Night's Watch probably wasn't what the man had wanted of his life but it was all Alliser could do for Tormund.

He'd spent hours trying to come up with a message to send to the Lord Commander to explain what had happened. It was hard to write one that didn't sound like excuses and the message would undoubtedly be shared with the Usurper.

Alliser Thorne would be damned before he'd apologise to Baratheon, even if he had lost the man's brother.

"How long before we reach the shore?" he demanded.

"We should be able to see the Wall now." The captain sounded perplexed. "I know this coast and the Wall's too high to miss."

Seven hundred feet of ice was rather hard to miss, Alliser conceded privately. "Perhaps there's fog around Eastwatch."

"Perhaps. But the commander should be sounding Eastwatch's bells if there is, to warn ships off."

Alliser hawked and spat off the side of the ship. Eastwatch-by-Sea's commander was Cotter Pyke and he wouldn't put it past the Ironborn bastard to let ships wreck themselves on the shore so he could loot them of their cargos. There was a little trade between the Watch and Braavos, enough that a profit could be made if a man really wanted to. There wasn't anything much to spend the proceeds on, but money made some of the lower born brothers happy.

Even some of the higherborns, Alliser thought, thinking of the First Steward's favorite. Then again, Baelish was an Essosi name, even if he claimed to be a Valeman. What could you expect of a foreigner?

"Tower in sight!"

Alliser and the captain looked at each other. "A tower?" How could any tower of Eastwatch be seen if the Wall itself wasn't visible?

Both of them scrambled up the rigging until they could see what the lookout did. A single stone tower rearing up from the blur of the shoreline.

"I don't recognise that tower," the captain admitted in perplexity.

Only a suggestion of the angled roof gave Alliser a hint. "It's one of the southern gate towers. We can't be more than a league offshore to see that." But it was far from the tallest or largest of Eastwatch's towers. And the Wall should be rearing up above it like a mountain of ice.

"Signal the rest of the fleet to make for Karhold," he ordered. Half the ships had made directly for Pentos, carrying the wildlings. If Eastwatch might not be safe as a harbour then the next place the ships could dock would be south of the Grey Cliffs. "We'll go in close and investigate."

"My lord?" the captain asked as he went down. "What's happened to the Wall?"

"I don't bloody know." Alliser stared at the shoreline. I just hope there are still ravens there. I need to find out and send word south. The Wall missing and half the castle with it... It just isn't possible.

In his mind he saw the wights spilling through the streets, those they felled rising to join their numbers. But it wasn't Hardhome's streets and buildings he saw, it was the red bricks and cobbles of King's Landing.

Suddenly, losing one royal prince didn't seem so bad.


	32. Chapter 32

**Stannis XVII**

"The court's gathered before the throne."

Stannis looked up from his desk. "I told you, Ser Davos, that I will make no announcement on these matters. Who has told them otherwise?"

"No one told them." Davos had his arms behind his back and was gazing at a point several inches above Stannis' head. "But sometimes a crew needs you to address them. It's a matter of morale."

"My brother is missing. The Wall is fallen. If the gossips have told them that much then they know everything that I do."

The former smuggler looked as if he was holding something back. "Yes, but they don't know that they do. And some reassurance might be in order."

"Will reassurance convince Mace Tyrell to cancel his idiot tournament and send his men North where they need to be?"

"No." Davos was probably running his intact fingers over the stumps on his other hand. "But it might convince him that he shouldn't mutiny... rebel outright, that is. A ship needs a strong helm in a storm."

Stannis thought back to the storm on his way to Dragonstone, and before that to the one that had lashed Shipbreaker Bay and claimed his parents. "A ship loaded with fools."

"Just as long as the captain isn't."

"The captain is off chasing dire wolves in the North." He reached down and strapped his leg on again. "Perhaps they will settle for his Hand."

Stag Tower had a staircase with regular windows looking out over Blackwater Bay. Stannis preferred this stair - he could look out at the ships clustering the harbour. Not just warships - the great trading carracks that crossed the Narrow Sea were another form of strength for House Baratheon. He'd doubted Robert's conviction that trade, rather than land, could become a source of wealth for them but the example was plain: the Hightowers and Redwynes had little land compared to the famously wealthy Lannisters - and certainly none of the gold mines - but their revenues rivaled that of the Westerlands.

Renly was talking of investing directly, he thought. I wonder if Obara will do that now.

There weren't so many carracks now - scores had been needed to move the Free Folk to Pentos. Another traditional Westerosi export: fighting men. One way or another that had ended though and no doubt merchant captains from the Three Daughters would once again find themselves up against steep competition from their western counterparts.

Winter was descending on the North. The Vale and the Riverlands were well into autumn but it would be months yet before the kingdoms furthest south saw frost or snow.

"One more harvest."

"Aye." Davos also glanced out of the window they were passing. "The shipyards are building every fishing boat they can. Maybe the lords will take to fishing rather than hunting."

"The deer and the boars won't handle winter any better than we do. Culling their numbers means fewer of them to feed on whatever they can find."

"Let's not extend that to the smallfolk."

"That isn't funny."

"No," the smuggler agreed. "But there are tales about what happens up on Skagos in a bad winter."

Stannis grunted and considered what he might do if food ran out for Orys, Hugh or his brothers' children. He thought that if it came to that, taking ship for Sothorys would be a better plan, although still not as good as making sure the granaries were full so it wasn't necessary to make that choice.

Robert would have swept out into the Crown, stood in front of his throne, dripping with confidence and calmed the crowd with a few words and perhaps a jest. Stannis just stumped his way up to the dais and gestured to the Royal Guard stationed there - Moore.

The man took out a short hunting horn and blew into it, drawing attention from those who hadn't yet realised Stannis was present. There was no order to the gathering. Clerks stood beside lords, servants beside knights.

"We have had news from Eastwatch-on-Sea, relayed through White Harbor." Stannis saw no point in sugar-coating the matter. "The Wildling port of Hardhome has fallen to an army of wights. My brother Renly..." He saw Obara in the group, standing next to a woman wearing a red dress that had to be Dornish. She'd regret that if it got much colder.

"Obara." Dammit, this should be said in private. His goodsister must have only just returned.

"Renly was there, was he not?"

"He was." Stannis ground his teeth. "He was ashore and did not return to the ship. Either he has escaped along the shore or he has not."

Well, one thing for his brother's bride, she wasn't one of those foolish women who thought tears were an answer to anything. "The first news is rarely complete," she said with stony patience. "Perhaps the High Septon would like to lead us in a prayer for the men of the fleet and for their kinfolk who must wonder if their men will return."

"Perhaps later." He glanced at the High Septon, the fat man well forward in the crowd. For a wonder, the man had the sense just to give a small nod.

Unfortunately, that was as far as good fortune went. "Is it true the Wall has fallen?" called a ginger-haired knight. One of Paxter Redwyne's twin sons - Horas, Stannis thought, although the two were easily mistaken for each other.

There was probably a perfect answer that would settle everyone's nerves and have them wait for the full truth. "The Wall, at least near Eastwatch, is gone."

From the look on their faces, that was not the perfect answer. "Ser Alliser Thorne, who sent the report, said that the garrison at Eastwatch claim that the ice flowed like water, westwards. We have not yet heard from the other castles. Eastwatch is damaged but not destroyed. No wights had been seen..."

More voices were rising in questions, a babble that made every query incomprehensible. Unlike Obara, several of the women had fallen back on tears as a response.

Stannis raised his voice. "The King has already marched north from Winterfell with more than fifty thousand men! He can restore order. The facts will be discovered and reported."

"But what if..."

"They will!"

Sandor Clegane grabbed a halberd from one of the King's Guard and slammed the butt against the flagstones until there was some semblence of quiet. "Do I need to call the City Watch here, to restore order?" the man with the burned face snarled.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Davos said quietly but clearly.

"This is not a time for panic or speculation. It is a time for patience."

"And for prayer," the High Septon added, stepping out of the crowd and turning to face them. "There shall be a special gathering, this evening at the Great Sept. Prayers will be said for the safe return of all those with the fleet in the North and for the victory of our brave King Robert's army over the forces of darkness."

Stannis wondered if any of the alms at this gathering collected would be of use for the widows and children of sailors who did not return.

A project he'd begun with Olenna Tyrell during his service as Master of Coins had begun to unravel the Faith of the Seven's finances. Unfortunately, the Faith's support was too important right now to do anything about it, but Robert had been very clear to his Hand that if push came to shove there would be no discussion of loans: the Most Devouts would either make a large voluntary donation or they'd be hit by a larger tax. And Stannis knew precisely where to collect that tax from.

The rebellious Devouts in Oldtown might be just the leverage to move on part of that. Stannis glanced at Stafford Lannister, who was manfully trying to calm down the more hysterical courtiers. He wondered if the Westerlander had any idea that the future of the Faith of the Seven rested almost entirely in his hands.

* * *

  
**Sansa III**

"Riders! From the north!"

At the call from outside Sansa looked up from her needlework and saw that Cersei had done the same. It had amazed the girl how different Queenscrown was from Winterfell. It was a smaller keep by far than her home and further north, but Cersei had created a warm and lush interior. She felt she was getting a look at the courts of the south in miniature.

"North is strange," her aunt said, setting aside the shirt that she was working on. "King Robert should be riding from the south, with my brother and your father."

"A messenger from the Wall?"

Cersei walked to the window and pressed one hand against the glass. Heavy shutters prevented any view of the outside but the panes bore the chill of the outside. "Cold but clear," she judged. "Good weather for ravens. Anyone riding now doesn't care for their own comfort."

"They could have been sent."

"We'll see." Cersei glanced over at the rack of heavy winter cloaks in unspoken signal. Sansa rose, as she would have for her mother, and brought the cape of red wool, lined with white furs before donning her own, a plainer grey with a direwolf embroidered across the back.

Sansa's cousins looked up hopefully from their lessons as their mother entered but she waved them back to the slates and books that Maester Owain had brought north with him. "You have much to learn in here," the tall blonde lady instructed them, "before you are ready to learn what happens outside today. Or can you tell me who was the Winter King during the reign of King Loren Lannister?"

"Torrhen Stark was King of Winter," answered Joffwyn. "Both men knelt and offered their crowns to Aegon the Conqueror."

Cersei fixed her oldest son with a steely look, but then the corner of her lips turned up. "Aye. And you, Joanna. Who did Torrhen's daughter wed?"

"Ronnel Arryn, last King of Mountain and Vale," the girl said swiftly. "Ancestor of Prince Jon Arryn."

Sansa hid dismay at Joanna's mis-step.

"Ronnel was flung from the Moon-Door by his brother and heir," Cersei corrected her daughter. "King Maegor did justice to the kinslayer, but it is through Ronnel's cousin that Prince Jon Arryn descends." She looked over at Owain. "I believe Joanna must study longer, but Joffwyn will escort his cousin and I."

"Of course, my lady." Owain dipped his head as Joff went for his cloak, throwing a triumphant look back at Joanna and at their brother Lyon, who waved his stylus merrily before going back to scratching letters into a wax tablet. He was a goodnatured boy and reminded Sansa somewhat of her youngest brother, only a few months older.

Joffwyn took the door, opened it and bowed Cersei and Sansa through with the flourish of a southern knight.

Queencrown had been a tower rearing out of a shallow lake when it was granted to Sansa's uncle. With gold and workers from the south, the waters had been drained to reveal the village that had once surrounded it and the tower was now ringed with granaries and other stores. Their outer walls were linked to each other and to two gatehouses, forming a curtain-wall.

Cersei strode across the yard to the north gate, the younger Starks trailing behind her. "Who comes?" she called up to the man up on the gate tower. Sansa noted that the man was stood rather close to the flaming brazier there and it was hard to blame him. The sky above was clear but to the north a wall of cloud was building. A winter storm would be upon them before the next dawn.

"Near a dozen riders, all in black."

"Black brothers." Uncle Benjen had joined them without being noticed until Sansa found him stood behind her. He had a way of that, although he told her that it was her father who had been called the quiet wolf when they were younger. "Guides for the King's Army perhaps."

"There have been no ravens to announce them."

"With the storm north of us the maesters may not wish to hazard them. There are never enough ravens for all the letters to be sent."

Cersei made a dismissive gesture. "They will wish a night's shelter, unless they are mad."

Benjen went to the stairs and was there in time to see the men make themselves known. He returned shortly after he called down to open the gates. "It's Prince Renly," he told Cersei. "I thought he was with the fleet."

"We've had no news of late." The golden haired lady shook her head. "Too little."

"Well I'm sure he'll fill us in."

The heavy gates creaked open and Renly Baratheon rode in at the head of his party. Sansa had thought him very handsome when she met him before but now he looked wan and tired, eyes half-lidded and his hair and beard were unkempt. He dressed all in black, a heavy fur cloak around his shoulders.

"Prince Renly." Benjen dropped to one knee, as he did so, followed by Sansa and the others of his family. "Welcome to Queenscrown."

Renly tilted his head, brilliant blue eyes sweeping across them. "Stark," he said, voice hoarse, and then fell silent.

"Come inside and warm yourself." Benjen extended his hand to the prince.

Instead of accepting, Renly turned to one of the men with him and nodded sharply.

The man reached under his cloak and produced a horn. It was of no creature that Sansa recognised, curled and twisted. Carvings glittered in the wintersun, showing that tiny sapphires were embedded in the lines, displaying tree branches interwoven with snowflakes.

"What is this?"

The man ignored Benjen and blew upon the horn.

Sansa screamed. She could not help herself. The sound of the horn seemed to claw at her bones. She thought that her aunt and uncle were screaming too, but it was impossible to tell. Joffwyn fell to his knees and clawed at his sword, half-drawing it before he clapped his hands over his face. She could see blood trickling from his eyes and ears.

Benjen stepped forwards, trying to drag the horn away from the man. He stopped short and then dropped slowly to his knees.

When he fell backwards, Sansa saw he was sliding backwards off a sword-blade. Her gaze traced the sword up to the hand holding it, then up the arm attached to that hand until she reached Renly's face, with its bright blue eyes. Eyes that were as cold and empty as crystals of ice.

The horn's cry continued, long after mortal lungs would have emptied, as the men around Renly cut down the shocked and reeling gate-guards. Sansa could feel a trickle of tears down her face and she wouldn't have been surprised if she'd known that blood was mixed into the tears.

The girl fell to her own knees, heedless of the dirt, and curled into a ball, pressing her face against her knees.

Hands gripped her arms and forced her up to her feet. She saw Renly holding Cersei, her aunt's arms twisted behind her back as she struggled, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Joffwyn grasped his sword and pulled it free of it's scabbard but one of the men with Renly seized the sword by the blade in one hand and locked his hand around the boy's throat. No, it was a wight. Blue eyes meant a wight, Sansa thought.

The horn ceased to sound. Sansa heard an eerie silence as the noise ended. Cersei's lips were moving but there was no sound around the girl. Her aunt was looking from Joffwyn to the tower, jerking against Renly's grip.

Blinking away the red tears in her vision, Sansa craned her own head around.

The tower of Queenscrown was no more. The great stones of its foundation were canted outwards around a pile of lesser stones that had once been laid upon them. Stones and other things.

Right at the top, of the heap, the distinctive gold painted merlons stood as mute testament to the ruin that had been made of Cersei's home and family.

Sansa opened her lips to scream but she heard nothing, nothing as she was thrown over the saddle of the horse - a horse as cold and dead as her captors. Before the men of Queenscrown could rally, Renly's riders were away, with no more resistance to their flight than Cersei's kicking and clawing at her own captor.

* * *

  
**Ned XVII**

The Kingsroad was crowded with horses and carts. The army was like a city on the march. The road itself had to be reserved for the immense train of supplies to keep men and horses fed and clothed - a vital need in the cold of the winter. It had been a hard lesson for Ned eighteen years ago in the war against Aerys - Gods, half his life ago - that war was less glory and more dry bread and stale beer. What glory there was, was paid for in blood.

There had been some changes, fortunately. Where once the supplies would have been carried in heavy wagons and carts dragged by teams of horses, since the Greyjoy Rebellion the improved horse collars Robert had asked for meant that smaller, lighter carts were drawn by a single horse at a time, spare horses hitched to the rear of the cart.

It still overloaded the road and to either side of the paved sections, carts and hooves tore apart the turf to either side, but at least lighter carts got stuck less often and could be dragged free more easily when they did find themselves mired.

Flanking the road were lines of marching soldiers and beyond them were horsemen, riding on remounts to spare their best warhorses and wearing half armour or less, covered in furs. Heavy plate could be a death sentence this far north, unless you added layer after layer of thick wool. The Dornishmen, in whose burning lands heavy armour could be equally deadly, did better than the Westerlanders.

Robert had divided the army when news came of the Wall. Only twenty thousand men, the best of his forces, were marching north along the Kingsroad. The rest were building fortifications around the northern end of Long Lake. How well those wooden forts would serve when the Wall had fallen was a question none of them were sure of.

"We can march the men no faster, Prince Jaime." Ned raised his gloved hand slightly to indicate the army. "They are tired and fearful."

"My sister and your brother are only a few days ride from the Wall... from where the Wall was."

"And my daughter," Ned replied.

"We cannot win that race." Robert's breath steamed in the cold. He'd been gifted a heavy tunic lined in the fur of black foxes by Lord Selmy, acting on behalf of Lady Selmy and her household. Barristan had made a pretty coin of selling furs to those on the way to the Wall and to southern households anticipating the winter. Fortunately the former Kingsguard wasn't a man to waste coin on frippery.

"A fast cavalry force could..."

"Wear their horses out?" the king asked mildly. He glanced up at the sky. "Ned, you know this road better than I do. How long would you say it would take... hmm, say five hundred horsemen... to reach Queenscrown from here?"

"We're not far from the Last River. In warmer weather, perhaps ten days. As it is, closer to three weeks."

"It can't be more than a hundred leagues," protested Jaime Lannister.

"There's no foraging," Ned reminded him. "You'll need carts to bring fodder for your horses so you can't really leave the road, and they'll slow you down."

"We'll get there as soon as we possibly can."

Ned thought the King looked tired. The uncertainty of what they would find, of what had happened to the thousands of men his oldest friend had bribed and bullied into reinforcing the Night's Watch... Robert had grown into his responsibilities more than the Lord of Winterfell had imagined possible but the lines on his face and the grey in his hair told of the price he'd paid for that maturity.

"None of this is your fault, Robert. If you hadn't organised a stronger garrison for the Wall, there would have been no ranging up the Milkwater and we'd have no idea the Others had returned."

"I never said it was my fault. Just my responsibility."

"Don't concern yourself, your grace." Jaime reached up to the hilt of Fire, which rode proudly alongside his saddle. "If so much as a hair on my sister's head has been harmed I'll hold the Night's King wholly accountable."

"You're confusing your history, Prince Jaime. The Night's King was generations after the Long Night, he was a traitor to the Night's Watch." Ned looked over at the older of the two black-clad riders who dogged the heels of Robert and his Royal Guards. The king's squire at least had a sound excuse. "Some say he was a Bolton."

"Others name a Stark, Prince Eddard." Roose Bolton had set aside his family's livery but the black tunic beneath his mail and the warm cloak over it were still of lordly make. "Both our families have sent many of our uncles and cousins to the Wall in their time. It is unlikely either of us will ever know for sure.

"He lost his head over a woman." Robert shook his head. "Might have been a Durradan for all I know."

A wolf's howl cut through the air and all those present turned to look in that direction.

"I-is that another pack?" asked the Tarly boy nervously. "Or the same wolves."

"I think it's the same," Ned told him. "They're uncanny, Robert. Our hunters glimpsed them occasionally but they've never been able to catch them. It's as if they have a man's wits."

"They haven't done more than spook horses. We have other concerns." Robert looked over to Jaime. "I thought you and your sister had fallen out with each other."

The Prince of the Rock looked uncomfortable. "It was foolishness. I've wished a thousand times to take back what I said. I'm sure she felt the same way."

"Too proud to do anything about it?"

Jaime looked away and Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "Once we're close enough, you can take an advance force west of the Kingsroad."

The golden-haired prince looked over at Ned. "I'll send her to Casterly Rock with her children. And your daughter if you want."

"Ask Benjen before you dispose of his family," he replied. It would be reassuring to have Sansa safe in Winterfell again then. Benjen might agree to the rest. Queenscrown was too far north without the Wall to guard it. And little Joanna was betrothed to Orys Baratheon, so she should learn more of southern ways.

Jaime kicked his horse into a trot as a cluster of red-cloaked riders reached the bend in the road where the royal party had stopped to watch the army pass. He raised one hand in salute to Robert but made no formal request to leave the group.

"He's feeling restless," observed Ned.

"Yes. I wouldn't be surprised if he rides north ahead of us anyway."

Ned pulled on his reins. "After you told him not to?"

"I told him why it was a bad plan. I didn't actually forbid it." The king's lips curled as Ned stared at him in astonishment. "I try not to give orders that won't be obeyed. A few days riding in the cold without the rest of the army may cool his hothead a little..."

"He's only a few years younger than us."

"I've ruled the Stormlands... not so well at first... for more than twenty years. You've ruled the North only a few years less. I doubt Tywin Lannister actually relinquished any true authority to our young Prince until the day he died." Robert took up his own reins. "Lord Barristan's men are said to have brought down some boar. Let's see if they can spare a plate for each of us. That sounds good, eh, Sam?"

The boy coloured as Robert reached over with his free hand and ruffled his hair fondly. He'd looked soft to Ned when he first saw him and barely less so now but he made no complaint or excuse about the weather, or about the hard ride. Perhaps there was more Tarly in him than seemed apparent.

* * *

  
**Barristan X**

There was something uncanny about the battle. Part of it might be the shorter winter day that made time seem to be moving faster, but there was also the lack of war cries from the wights. Their silence was unlike battle against the living, of which Barristan had seen so much.

"Why aren't they closing in?" wondered the King's squire, holding the great antlered helmet which was one of Robert's most visible identifying marks on the battlefield.

"Perhaps they see in the dark." Robert glanced up at the sky. "If so, fighting at night would put them at an advantage."

The two armies had met near the northern edge of the Wolfswood, perhaps halfway between the Last Hearth and Queenscrown. Hunters from a clan sworn to the Umbers had seen the large force marching southwards from the Gift and had the sense to pass word to their lords. The warning had arrived in time for Robert to position his army at a point where the Kingsroad went down a shallow slope, one the wights would have to climb to get to them.

Behind the army were hundreds of cookfires. The men had had a warm breakfast at least. Barristan wondered if they knew that the fires wouldbe the pyres of those who died if the wights were defeated. The dead could not be left to rise as reinforcements for the Others' army. Some messages from Hardhome suggested that the dead might rise within moments of death so parties of torchbearers stood ready.

Towards the bottom of the slope, thousands of wights formed a loose arc facing Robert's army. They outnumbered the living but not by so many as to be an impossible disparity. What was more concerning was that while the flanks were by the looks of their equipment Free Folk or small folk, there was a solid mass in the centre who were well armed and armoured. They wore the colours of a score of lords... and the black of the Night's Watch.

"I wouldn't mind seeing Prince Jaime return," Robert noted. "But at least I don't see the banners of his sworn swords amongst their riders, or that ridiculous golden armour of his in their ranks."

Barristan nodded silently. Much as Robert had predicted, Jaime Lannister had left the army before dawn three days ago. He'd only taken twenty men with him so his return wouldn't really change the numbers but it would be good for morale. Several Dornish men had uttered imprudent words about the direction that the Warden of the West might be riding, which was why the Dornish contingent were currently posted to the right flank with the Northern levies between them and the Westerlanders on the left.

"There's a rider from the east flank, your grace."

Robert turned and looked in the direction his squire had warned him of. The boy was right. And more interestingly, Lord Dondarrion was rolling his extreme flank backwards. To experienced eyes that told it's own tale and the handsome lord of Blackhaven had spent two years on the Wall with the Dornish contingent. He was no summer knight - it was why he'd been chosen to command that wing of the army.

"Send word to Ser Addam Marbrand. Pull his flank back and prepare to be attacked from the west," Robert ordered. The commander of the left flank was one of Jaime Lannister's regular companions. He'd not been to the Wall before, but he'd fought on the Iron Isles.

Barristan nodded in approval as the rider reined in his sweating horse. "Your grace, my Lord Dondarrion reports a large force moving up through the woods on the right flank. We don't know their exact numbers but he believes it is at least half the size of the army to the north."

The king nodded calmly. "I thought as much. You're... Edric Dayne, yes?"

The boy blinked and then drew himself up. "Yes, your grace."

"You've grown since we last met," Barristan noted. His wife's nephew... and of an age with Duncan.

"Aye, Lord Selmy. But I have much to learn still."

"Tell Lord Dondarrion he's acted correctly." Robert glanced up at the sky. "This is no longer a battle we can afford. He's to have half his men retreat down the King's Road. The others will have to hold the enemy off until the road's clear."

"Yes, your grace." Edric bowed in his saddle and pulled on his horse's reins.

"And don't rush, lad. Nothing spreads as fast through an army as fear, so don't let the men think matters are going badly."

The squire returned Robert's confident smile and rode east at a more measured pace this time.

"I don't like Dondarrion's chances," warned Barristan. "He's outnumbered to begin with."

"Yes, but the road is narrow. A mob would crowd themselves and move slowly." The king looked over at his squire. "I need you to handle a job for me, Sam." He unbuckled a satchel from behind his saddle and passed it to the boy. "Go back to the camp and get our supplies moving south. There should be room on the road for carts and the first of Dondarrion's men."

Sam accepted the bag and started securing it to his own saddle. "Isn't this your crown?" he asked dubiously.

"The only crown I'll need this day is my helm," Robert told him, accepting it in return for the satchel. "Take that and my papers back to Long Lake. I'll catch up with you there or... if I don't then give it to Ned. Failing that... well, you have a good head, you can figure it out."

"I-I shouldn't leave you," the boy stammered nervously. He glanced north at the enemy. "My father..."

"Your father understands that you're sworn to my orders. And this is mine to you. I can think of no better man to entrust this to."

Sam's spine seemed to stiffen. "I won't let you down, your grace."

"I know." Robert waved him off and then looked at Roose Bolton. "If you wish to join the Dreadfort levies..."

"Let's not confuse matters." The pale eyed lord glanced towards the banners of his house, well forward with the Northern force under Ned Stark. "They're getting used to the idea that Domeric is their lord and I've grown used to being beside you."

"Movement in the north!" called out Loras Tyrell.

The king shook his head and squinted. "Your eyes are younger than mine," he complained. "But you're right. Tell Ned to let them come."

"With all due respect, Ser Brynden would have my head if I left your side."

"Good point." Robert gave the young knight a tight-lipped smile and waved for some of the pages waiting to act as messengers. "Boys, I have word to send to Prince Eddard and to Ser Addam..."

The wights had barely come far enough up the slope for archers to begin showering them with arrows when the first rider sent to Marbrand returned. "Ser Addam says his scouts have spotted more wights moving in the forest. He's pulling his flank back as directed."

Robert didn't take his eyes off the wights, trying to gauge how much effect the arrows were having. "Very good. Matters are going as well as we can hope for."

Something about Barristan's expression must have given away his feelings for the King smiled ruefully. "Under the circumstances, that is. The Ghiscari had numerous tactical manuals, some of which survived their defeat by the Valyrians. Our armies are very different, and I don't think they ever contemplated a foe like this but one thing that may hold true is that there's no manoeuvre more difficult for an army than to disengage from battle."

"We may be outnumbered, but most of their forces are ill-equipped." Roose Bolton was also eyeing the fall of the arrows. "Our men are armed with dragonglass and fire. Perhaps we should press the attack."

"The dead won't break of their own will. Perhaps their leaders might but we don't even know where they are. The resolve of our men is... human. And night is coming."

"A long night."

"On many levels," agreed the king.

From the highest point on the ridge, they could see the battlefield, their own army bent back into a U with wights pushing at all sides. Dondarrion and Marbrand used their mounted knights in squadrons to herd back any attempt by the enemy to move around the ends and close their avenue of retreat. While the wights fought competently, against a prepared line of armed men they were making less than impressive progress. A trickle of wounded were being sent back to join the retreating camp and a few pyres behind the lines showed where the dead were being burned.

In return, Barristan could hear the periodic crashes of dragon-pots as King's Men hurled them over the line of the fighting using slings. As the fuses burned down, the pots eruped in brief blasts of flame and sent shards of obsidian flying through the wights. "There's something wrong," he murmured. "Does anyone have a far-eye?"

One of the pages presented him with the precious glass instrument and Barristan tried to point it the right place. After a few moments of adjusting his view he found what he was looking for, a dozen men with burning brands flailing at the wights. "That's not right."

"What isn't right, Lord Selmy?" asked Ser Brienne respecfully.

The old knight looked at her for a moment. How times had changed. She was formidable but... it was a strange thing. "The wights aren't burning, or rather they burn less than they did. When I fought them north of the wall they'd burn away in a few heartbeats at the touch of flame."

Robert rubbed his beard. "That has unfortunate implications." He turned to the pages. "Inform Lord Stark he's to have his archers withdraw now. And you, go to Marbrand and tell him to commit his reserves and send his weariest troops back towards the camp as well."

"If we keep thinning out our forces then we won't be able to hold the wights back."

"I'm aware of that," Robert replied tightly. "You're a font of good news today, Ser Barristan."

He stared at the king, realising suddenly how thin the veneer of calm was. "Of course, my apologies, your grace."

Robert gestured dismissively. "If you would do me the favour of taking a few of the pages and staking out a more compact defensive line, we can have the remaining footmen fall back upon it before the sun is too low in the sky."

Recognising his dismissal, Barristan turned his horse and picked out four pages. There were stacks of sharpened wooden stakes, brought with the army in the event of a battle like this. Stark, Marbrand and Dondarrion had lined their frontage with these but they hadn't used them all.

There weren't enough left to use as obstacles and the pages probably couldn't embed them firmly enough in the time available. Still, working in pairs they were able to drive a couple of dozen deep enough to stay upright, marking out angled lines to either side of the road. The entire line would be less than half a mile long but with the way numbers were dwindling as Robert pulled contingents out of the line...

"Will we..." The youngest of the pages looked embarrassed as his voice squeaked. "Will we lose the battle, Lord Selmy?"

He considered his answer carefully. "This isn't a battle for lands, Dhugal. The enemy wanted to trap the army, to slay us and add our bodies to their strength. By withdrawing, King Robert denies them that. The enemy is death..."

"And it shall have no dominion."

Barristan turned as the king approached. "Indeed, your grace."

"You boys head back to the camp," Robert ordered. "Fill your saddlebags with food and ride for Long Lake. The army will be regrouping there."

"We can wait as long as the other pages, your grace."

"They've the same orders, once they've delivered my orders this last time." He looked around. "It's a good line, Barristan. Good work."

He was about to respond when something about the sound of the fighting to the north changed. Robert must have heard it too because his head snapped around. The striking blue eyes narrowed and without a word the king spurred his horse towards the fighting, his companions hastening to keep up. Barristan saw that while the other pages went for the camp, young Dhugal stubbornly followed the king.

It took only moments to see the cause for concern. The direwolf banner of House Stark had fallen and while someone quickly lifted it, the line was beginning to crumble. An obvious cause came into view - two men and a horse making for the camp. The smaller man was reeling and the second, large enough to remind Barristan of the unlamented Gregor Clegane, was heaving him into the saddle.

"Dammit Ned!" Robert reached the pair first and seized the reins, steadying the horse so that the large man could finish getting the blood-soaked Warden of the North into the saddle.

"Robert?" The prince gritted his teeth and tried to focus. "I'm alright. I just need to..."

"Your arm's half off," the king snapped. He pulled a spare belt from his saddlebag and started strapping the wounded arm into place. "Bloody hell, Ned."

"I don't need..." The northerner's words, more pride than sense, were undercut by the fact he almost fell out of the saddle.

"You need to get our of here." Robert looked at the large man. "I saw you at Winterfell, you're... Wylis?"

"Walder, s- yer grace." The man knuckled his forehead and then had to hastily reach back to keep Eddard from falling onto him.

"Of course. You're a good man, Walder. See that Eddard makes it back to Long Lake, safe and sound."

Roose Bolton dismounted. "You'll need another horse," he told Walder. "Take mine."

"Bolton?" muttered Prince Eddard, as if surprised by the man's presence.

"The flanks are retreating," called Ser Loras.

Barristan looked back and saw Marbrand and Dondarrion's forces falling back onto the line he'd marked. The northern forces though...

Stubbornly they were trying to hold their ground, gaps opening between them and the rest of the army.

"Ned, did you give the order to retreat?"

"Retreat?" the northerner gave Robert a blank look.

"Godsdammit." Robert slapped the the rump of Eddard's horse and it bolted south, Walder giving chase while barely in his saddle.

The dead were moving now and their flanks weren't following the southern levies. Whoever was commanding them had seen the opportunity and was folding them in behind the northerners.

And behind the King.

"We have to go!" Loras cried. "There's still time."

Robert's eyes clouded in thought and then he set his jaw. "Roose, can the North hold while the rest of the army retreats."

The pale-eyed man didn't hesitate at the cold-blooded question. "Not without the Stark."

"Maybe they'll settle for a Baratheon." He squared his shoulders and looked around. "Barristan..."

"I think I have some recollection of how to guard a King."

"Stubborn old knight."

"But still a knight."

Robert saw Dhugal. "One last message for you then, lad. Tell Lord Dondarrion he's in command of the army and is to retreat immediately."

"Your grace?"

"Go!" Robert roared and then turned his horse for the northerners.

Ser Loras and the woman Brienne followed him, the latter raising the royal banner above her with one hand. Barristan made to follow them and found his saddle seized by Bolton. Understanding, he withdrew one foot from a stirrup and let the other man use that and his grip to ride with him.

As they made after the King, to join the other northern banners in the ring of swords flanked on all sides by the dead, Roose Bolton spoke softly.

"Night gathers and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death."

Barristan recognised the words and joined his voice to them. "I shall take no wife..." Ashara. "Hold no lands..." Their keep amid the hills and lakes. "Father no children..." Duncan. I would see the man you become.

"I shall wear no crowns," called Robert as he crammed his helmet onto his head. "And win no glory."

Loras and Brienne exchanged looks. "I shall live and die at my post," they added to the growing voices as they reached the Northern lines. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls."

Rather than stay with the first northerners, those who'd been on the flanks and had now been driven back on each other to form a circle, Robert pressed on to the centre of the line, the most northerly of them where the men of Winterfell still stood. "I am the fire that burns against the cold," he called out and a chorus of voices greeted him in grim recognition - and determination.

"The light that brings the dawn," swore the men of the North. "The horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men."

"I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch," Bolton's voice was clear enough to Barristan as they said the words. "For this night..."

Neither man was prone to lies and they fell silent as the sun touched the horizon. Behind them were the living, those who would retreat. Between them, the dead.

And in this circle were men who would have no more nights to come.


	33. Chapter 33

**Sansa IV**

At first Sansa thought they were being taken to the Wall. They were riding north, after all and there was little else north of Queenscrown. She could think of nothing else that the great mass of white on the horizon could be, save for that. But Cassana had told her of the Wall and it should stretch from horizon to horizon. What she saw reared up out of the ground like a mountain.

"I do not know." Aunt Cersei had to enunciate her words carefully, for their hearing had not entirely recovered yet. "I came here, once, with Benjen and Joffwyn." She covered her eyes with one hand for a moment.

Sansa looked away, uneasy to share her aunt's pain. She cared for her uncle and for her cousins but the loss was not as sharp for her as it must be for Cersei.

The riders carrying them paid the two women no mind as long as they didn't try to escape. Sansa and Cersei, by unspoken agreement, did their best to ignore their captors as well.

"We should not see the Wall yet," the golden-haired woman declared. "Whatever that is, it is higher."

Higher than the Wall? Her disbelief must have shown on her face because Cersei's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I do not accept such expressions on my own children..." she began, and then turned her face away.

"I'm sorry." Sansa was unsure if her aunt could hear her though.

Some hours later, as the mass of white on the horizon swelled and details began to appear, Cersei craned her head and looked from left to right. "Hmm."

"Aunt Cersei?"

"We should be able to see the Wall now."

Sansa looked at the horizon. There was snow, of course, so perhaps the white of the Wall was blending in. "I..."

"I don't see it either." Then Cersei paled. "Oh. No, that can't be..."

Her aunt's green eyes had widened in fear. Sansa looked at the horizon and then back again at Cersei. "I'm sorry, my lady aunt, I do not understand."

"The Wall is made of thousands of millions of tons of ice. Someone has somehow... heaped it in one place." She looked at it again and sniffed. "And apparently carved it into the shape of a castle."

Sansa looked up at the great mountain of ice with its near vertical walls, arching buttresses and glittering towers that seemed to almost reach the clouds in the sky. "It's larger than Winterfell." By several orders of magnitude.

"It's larger than all of King's Landing. And from when we last heard from the Wall, it can't have been here more than a month."

"But who could build something so vast?" And what can my father do about them, Sansa wondered. It was unimaginable.

Cersei's lips tightened. "It seems we are likely to learn." The mountainous structure stood west of the Kingsroad, although it extended miles in either direction. "A White Keep, one that dwarfs the Red Keep of the Targaryens. It is a statement of power."

"It's terrifying."

"Take some courage from this. Harrenhal was once the greatest fortress in all Westeros, but in the end it was brought to ruin in a single night."

"Aegon the Conqueror had dragons."

"Ah. Yes." Cersei sighed. "King Robert has fine siege engineers, perhaps the finest in the known world. If anyone can break this castle open then it is he."

The low winter sun cast their shadows before them as the two women were carried north, their shapes cast in light and shadow along the road and up the ramp that began the evidently long ascent into the White Keep.

* * *

  
**Ned XVIII**

Walder had managed a small fire in the tiny sheltered campsite that the large man had found. It was a risk, Ned knew. The fire could draw wights upon them - or their masters - and he was in no state to fight back. But that was merely possible. Without the fire, in the chill of the night their deaths would be a certainty.

And there was another reason they needed a fire.

Ned grit his teeth, feeling them dig into the leather of his belt, and nodded sharply. With a sorrowful look on his face, Walder took his knife from where he had been heating it in the fire, wiped it once against his damp cloak (which steamed at the brief contact with the glowing metal) and then severed what was left of the flesh holding Ned's arm together.

Then he placed the flat of the blade against the broken flesh, burning the veins and arteries to close them.

The Prince of the North, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North couldn't keep from a muffled scream behind the belt. His vision greyed and he hoped he hadn't soiled himself.

A petty hope, he realised as Walder removed the knife and started unbinding the tourniquet that had been all that kept him from bleeding out until the gentle giant could deliver more treatment. Why not wish that they were with the rest of the army, or that he hadn't taken this wound?

It was ungrateful of him to blame the simple stablehand for getting them lost in the night. Certainly Ned had done nothing to help, he'd been barely concious and by the time he realised they'd left the road in the twilight it was far too late to do anything about it. As it was, the former stablehand's limited grasp of surgery - as had been done to the dogs and horses of Winterfell - was all that might keep Ned alive.

Once he could control himself, he used his remaining hand - the right one, thank the Old Gods - to remove his belt from his mouth. "Thank you, Walder."

The big man nodded solemnly. "King said good man."

"Robert." Ned forced a smile. "Yes, he would see that. In the morning we should try to rejoin him."

Walder nodded and recovered his knife from the snow where he'd left it to cool. "Long Lake," he said and pointed to a stream below the little dell where he'd built the fire. "Follow water."

"Aye, that's best." Ned tried to get his feet under him. They had their cloaks, their belt-knives and armour, Ned had Ice - Walder must have dropped his own weapon to concentrate on helping his lord to safety. Ned recalled rolling a blanket behind his saddle in the morning - it felt as if it had been days before - which would help a little.

"Is there anything on your horse?" he asked, checking. It was a lordly mount - a courser with a fine saddle and to Ned's relief, thin saddlebags were slung behind the saddle.

Walder unstrapped the bags and carried them over to Ned before unbuckling the first. "Bread," he concluded, pulling out a cloth-wrapped package.

The wrappings did indeed contain travel bread and there was meat and cheese beneath it. Whoever had packed the bag had prepared better for this than Ned, he admitted to himself grudgingly. Then again, he'd expected to be in the thick of a battle and he'd been right there. There had been seemingly little point in taking food with him.

The other bag contained a small knife, a hammer and pegs, flint and steel as well as a bag of tinder. Walder seemed to have managed without the latter so far, but there was no harm in being prepared. "Where did you get this horse, Walder?"

The big man knuckled his head in thought. "A black lord," he said at last, no name coming to his mind.

"Black... he wore black? Was there any coat of arms?" Beric Dondarrion's colours were mostly black.

Walder shook his head. "All in black. Eyes like milk."

"Bolton? Was it Roose Bolton?"

All he got in return was a baffled look. Bolton had been to Winterfell a few times but perhaps Walder would not recall. It was hard to say what would and would not stick in the man's mind.

The two men huddled close to each other and to the fire as the night darkened. Unable to sleep with the throbbing of his arm, Ned fed the fire with twigs as Walder finally began to snore. Following the stream was sensible after a fashion - it would lead to a river and there would likely still be villages along that - but it wouldn't get them to Long Lake, they were still north of the Last River so following the water would take them east into Umber lands.

Better that than freezing though and the Last Hearth was nearer than Lyanna's keep. She and Catelyn would be worried sick but there was nothing he could do about that...

A wolf howled and Ned froze, his hand going to Ice's hilt. While he was with the army, he'd allowed the pack of direwolves to fall to a minor thing. No pack, however large, was a threat to thousands of men camped or marching. Two men on their own in the woods was a very different thing and that howl had been close.

He shook Walder one-handed but the big man was lost to the world. Another howl, even closer, and that woke the horses. Bolton's courser whinnied in a panic and yanked on the long rein Walder had used to let it graze on what grass it could find, rearing and dragging on the leather.

That sound woke Walder, some deep-buried stablehand's instinct. "Horses scared," he said.

"Aye. Wolves are near." Ned could give no more warning before two grey furred shapes bounded out of the darkness and took down the courser in an instant. Walder cried out in alarm and took a step towards them but Ned seized his arm. "It's too late."

There were more direwolves now, mostly grey but one all in black. One of them was larger - nearly the size of the horses - and perhaps older. A pair of the others herded Ned's horse back towards it and the beast ripped out the warhorse's throat with brutal efficiency.

Pressing themselves back and away from the fire, the two men watched the direwolves eat. They didn't do so all at once, two in turn holding back to circle watchfully as the others ate. Ned heard Walder sniffle at the sight but before he could offer some scant consolation, he felt a prickle against the back of his neck. Some ancient instinct, perhaps.

Carefully, slowly, he turned his head.

Stood behind and above them, a snow-white direwolf was watching them with red eyes. If it jumped... Ned thought he wouldn't even have time to finish drawing Ice from its scabbard. He stared into the eyes, their depths almost hypnotic...

A thump drew him out of his reverie. Looking back he saw that the other direwolves had dragged the horse carcasses closer. How long had he been gazing at the white one?

Now the direwolf descended and ripped away one leg from Ned's horse for itself. Before eating though, it clawed away the hindquarter and pushed the resulting mass of meat towards the two men. When they stared, the white-furred beast nudged the meat closer and then turned away to it's own meal.

"Is it..."

"Feeding us?" Walder asked, wide-eyed.

Ned nodded slowly. "Aye. I think they are. I... suppose there's not much else we can do with the horses now." He looked away, obscurely embarrassed as tears ran down the large man's cheeks at that. "If we can rig a spit, I'll roast it over the fire while you sleep. We can eat in the morning."

With some coaxing Walder pulled his cloak around himself and curled up on the ground. Perhaps in his simple mind, Ned's outward calm was an assurance that the direwolves weren't simply keeping them around for breakfast. The prince didn't feel the same confidence but the facts were that there was little else he could do.

To his surprise the direwolves also gathered around the fire and he found that he and the sleeping Walder were soon nestled against furry and - most importantly - warm bodies. The white direwolf lay to his left, eyes looking into the little fire as Ned coaxed the flames to keep dancing and turned the sticks holding the most salvageable joints of meat he could carve off the horse's arse.

Ned tried to pretend it was a coincidence that one direwolf paw was firmly resting on Ice so he couldn't have drawn the sword if he wanted to. He doubted very much that that was the truth though.

* * *

  
**Varys XIV**

Viserys had been right. The Wall was gone - and there were signs that it hadn't gone peacefully.

Castle Black was broken. The towers nearest where the Wall had been now lay in ruins. Other buildings and towers had clearly been opened and fought over. The bodies of scores of wights lay where they had fallen but there were more than a hundred bodies in the black of the Night's Watch.

The four of them had checked the bodies one at a time. Without exception the bodies that remained were those that bore the jagged wounds of dragonglass daggers or were still pierced by arrowheads of the same material.

"These men did not turn on each other," Thoros decided. "Their brothers put them down so they would not rise again."

"Or they did rise again and their brothers laid them back to rest." Viserys leant against the wall of what had once been a feast hall. "Whoever won here, they marched away."

Varys nodded. "The armory has been stripped and some of the vaults." He made a helpless gesture. "They seem to have emptied shelves of books and scrolls but there's still food."

"Any wine?"

"Some bottles, although rather more ale."

"I'll have some of that then." Bronn turned and headed for the cellars.

"Don't throw it up anywhere we need to clean up," Viserys called after him. They'd all lost weight on the long march and too much food too soon after short rations had been the undoing of more than one man he'd met at the sieges of various Iron Islander castles.

Thoros gave the departing sellsword a worried look and then shook his head. "If the Other is on the march, this could be the case well to the south."

"One would hope that ravens would have flown in warning." Varys stuffed his hands in his sleeves - no longer a mere mannerism for it kept his fingers warm. "Then again..."

"Do not speak of hope." Viserys stood sharply and walked to a gap in one of the walls. "It has abandoned these lands. Hope saves nothing."

"Hope, your grace, may be all that a man might have at times."

The younger man turned and stared at him with imperious eyes. Then the tension seemed to slip away from his shoulders. "You are correct. My apologies, cousin. I, if anyone, should remember that."

Bronn returned with bag of dried fruits that he shared with the other three and a jug of ale which he did not. The others didn't complain, instead sitting and picking at the food, each alone with their thoughts.

Varys saw Viserys' head turn as they neared the end of their meal. He didn't ask but instead tilted his head. A moment later he heard foosteps himself. Men or wights he couldn't have said, but even the former might not be trustworthy and their position wasn't very hidden nor secure.

Slowly, careful of sound, the four of them set aside their plates and drew their swords. There was too much snow and rubble to move quietly so until or unless they were seen...

Men rounded the corner and their own swords flashed as instinct had them draw at the sight of bared steel. Their leader though, a greatsword held in one hand, extended his arm to hold any rush. Varys recognised him.

"Ser Viserys?" The golden-haired man looked startled. "I thought you were in Essos."

"Your brother brought me back across the Narrow Sea. Didn't he tell you?"

Jaime Lannister lowered his sword - valyrian steel, Varys noted, the famous Fire that Ser Tyrion had recovered from an island in the Smoking Sea - but did not release it. "We haven't met of late."

"You're visiting your sister," Varys guessed.

"I was planning to, spider." The Lannister glanced at Thoros and Bronn then back to Varys. "Queenscrown is a ruin but some of the smallfolk survived. They tell me Cersei was carried away up the Kingsroad."

"And you went after with only six men? You are very bold."

A frown crossed Jaime's face. "There were one and twenty of us when we left Robert's army." He didn't say what had happened to the other two-thirds of his party.

Viserys perked up. "The Usurper has brought an army?"

"The king has, yes." Lannister and Targaryen crossed eyes and for a moment Varys thought they might cross swords as well. The one had killed the other's father after all. "How did you come by Arthur Dayne's sword?"

"I killed him."

"You killed the Sword of Morning?"

Viserys smiled tightly. "I didn't believe it either at first."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I learned a lot from Arthur Dayne." Green eyes were as cold and hard as the frost. "You're not worthy to so much as clean his blade, much less carry it."

Tension sung in the air between the two men.

"I believe that Ser Viserys proposed to return his cousin's sword to Starfall when the opportunity presented itself," Varys offered mildly.

"Don't think I don't see valyrian steel in your hands, Lord Varys. I know no quantity of gold will pay for such a weapon."

"I suppose that the late Lord Greyjoy would have said I paid the iron price, your highness." Varys smirked. "Unlike Ser Viserys however, I cannot claim to have taken it in a fair combat."

"Stabbed the owner in his sleep I suppose?"

"He was awake."

"Enough of this." Viserys thrust Dawn back into its scabberd. "We have larger concerns than bickering among each other. I have not seen your sister, Prince Jaime."

"The trail broke westwards." Jaime sheathed Fire and the other men stood down. "I couldn't say how far and we needed shelter for the night."

"And supplies," muttered one of those behind him.

"The cellars here seem undisturbed," offered Thoros. "There's enough to fill all our saddlebags."

Jaime nodded grudging thanks. "I can pay gold for your help if you ride with me in the morning. You sell your sword these days, Viserys."

The silver-haired knight shook his head. "I wish you well but I have other concerns."

Varys saw Thoros glance at Bronn, who scratched his chin and then shook his head. Interesting, he thought.

"Sorry to disappoint you."

Jaime shrugged with less than convincing indifference. "If you're going on south I'd be glad if you could tell Robert about Queenscrown if you meet him before he gets that far."

"That I can promise you."

One of Jaime's men reached for Bronn's ale and the sellsword slapped the hand away. "Fetch your own if you're thirsty."

"We'll do that." Jaime restrained the redcloaked swornsword with those words. "Perhaps if you could lay a fire in the southernmost tower we can bring food there from the cellars. It seems least damaged."

Bronn grunted and picked up the jug, heading towards the indicated tower. Varys rubbed his chin and then walked after him.

* * *

  
**Cassana V**

Every bell in King's Landing was tolling and Cassana wished with all her heart that they were not. Lyanne could barely stop crying and that would often set Steffana off, although she was so small it was hard to be sure if she understood that father would never return.

Daenerys had left the little tower for the first time in weeks and bathed alongside their sisters. All their sisters for Mya and Bella had joined them and were supporting mother as best they could. Both had husbands in the north and in the dark of the previous night, Cassana had wondered if Ronnet and Domeric were dead too and no one had thought to write of their fates as well.

Today House Baratheon could afford no tears. The king was dead, heroically which made little difference to Cassana but might to the lords, knights and smallfolk. Prince Eddard and Prince Jaime were missing and might be dead too. Much was being made of Ser Marbrand and Lord Dondarrion for extricating three-quarters of the royal army from the trap that the Others had set while father, Lord Roose, Ser Loras and brave lady Brienne held back the enemy force. It was cold comfort to the thousands of families that had lost their men.

Eddard led mother across the main floor to the dais, followed by Uncle Stannis and Aunt Aemma. Prince Jon was next in rank now and he escorted Cassana rather than his own wife - Lady Lysa claimed to be too distraught to be seen in public. Why that was, Cassana did not know. Riverland levies had not been part of the army and nor had those of the Vale. Behind them, her younger sisters and cousins paired off neatly.

The men and women gathered in the crown wore black in mourning, which had caused a small spike in the price of black cloth in King's Landing. Stafford Lannister had noted that to Jon in an aside before they left the antechamber where they had waited. He'd wanted to add to the tax on cloth merchants to recoup some of that, but Jon had disagreed, thinking it disrespectful towards father's memory.

Cassana doubted that her father would care much. She wore black too, Baratheon colours reversed and golden stags decorating her sleeves and underskirts. All of the family had such clothes, paid by father for such occasions as this. Had he thought ahead to think that one day his children would wear them to his funeral - not that his body was there to be buried.

"Your father made the throne his own." Jon Arryn's lips barely seemed to move as he murmured to her. "All our precedents for succession are built around the old one. We must not seem less than confident."

She raised her chin as they reached the dais and saw Eddard standing before it. What would he do - he must have been counselled, she thought. He had not been in evidence much as the women of the royal household gathered themselves for this. Uncle Stannis must have spoken to him, surely, in the handful of days before he'd arrived after a frantic ride from Riverrun.

Her brother placed his hands on the now worn golden silk that covered the throne. Nothing more than their father's cloak, cast over this chair as he might have readily done casually but here turned to the subtle magic of kingship. For an instant, Cassana thought he would remove the cloak and wanted to scream at him not to.

Instead Eddard smoothed it and then turned to the gathered assemblage with little of his usual delight. "People of Westeros, I am your king."

There was an unhappy sigh from the crowd. Not one of them hadn't known for days but this made it more concrete. The known - the mighty warlord and judicious lawmaker - was gone and here was an untested boy.

"I have not yet the years to sit upon my father's throne." There was no give in his voice. He sounded more like Uncle Stannis than himself. "But the Kingdoms stand at war and we must have a leader, a regent, until I am of age. I can think of no better man than my father's good right hand - and House Baratheon's Ironfoot."

Cassana blinked at that irreverance but when she saw her brother blink back what threatened to be tears she forgave him instantly. From the faint sound of her uncle's teeth, he might not be so generous.

"Uncle, will you command as your brother did, as I one day must. Will you be my instructor in statescraft and the captain our peoples need in this hour."

Stannis stepped forward and dropped to one knee before Eddard. Taking the boys' hands between his, he looked up - Eddard was tall for his age. "Would you have me be your father, have my sons be your brothers, until you have a man's years, my king?"

"I would, and no other."

"Then take us as your loyal liegemen." Orys guided little Hugh forwards and they flanked their father, swearing oaths that had been ancient when Andal kings adopted certain customs of the lands they had gained on the battlefield or through the wedding bed.

With that done, the three boys stepped aside, together as nearly alike as the brothers that Stannis had suggested. Cassana heard Jon take a deep breath and looked up at him. His eyes were far away.

"Prince Arryn." Stannis' voice cracked like a whip as he stood before the throne.

As if woken from a dream, Jon stepped forwards. "Prince Stannis, in the name of our dead liege and our living lord, Eddard Baratheon, first of his name, King of Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, do you accept the burden of serving as Regent and Protector of the Realm."

"By the gods I do. By the blood of my family I do. By my honour, I shall do my duty." Slowly Stannis sat upon her father's throne. His expression might have suggested that he found it uncomfortable - although it was always hard to tell with him. Cassana hoped that he never felt comfortable there, and then thought the same more seriously. Her uncle now wielded the power of a king and it would take little to set aside the legal barriers to make that power his own.

Cassana stepped forwards before Stannis could give further orders and drew her skirts about her in curtsey. "My lord uncle, as you are aware my father entrusted me with certain documents before he went north."

"I am aware."

She drew a simple fold of parchment, sealed in black wax with her father's signet. "This is addressed to my brother, in the event of... such a day as this."

Stannis accepted the letter from her, examining the seal and also the brief instructions written above it. Then he snapped the seal with a sharp twist of his wrists and handed the letter unopened to Eddard. Cassana took the opportunity to move to stand next to the boys.

Eddard scanned the letter quickly - he might not be the most willing of readers but he'd accepted father's direction that he should in that case be swift about doing such reading as he must. "If I may share this with the court...?"

The request could hardly be refused, although Cassana knew that Stannis had further business to make public. A short gesture to Eddard gave assent.

"My son, if you are reading this then I am dead and you must now bear the terrible privilege of leading the realm. Know that you have been bequeathed seven jewels of incomparable splendor: the noble Vale and glittering West, the fierce North and fiery Dorne, the proud Reach and the verdant Rivers, and lastly but never least, the mighty East."

"To this is added the gold of House Baratheon: your uncles combine all that is best in us, the steadfastness of a castle, the brightness of lightning, the fury of a storm. I have given you no brothers such as this, but it is my hope that my nephews will be men as worthy when the time comes. Neglect not the counsel of our ladies for they have much of wit and wisdom, that is to be prized."

"Much else is yours and in the days to come, those appointed to the task will assuredly instruct you in these lesser treasures. Beyond this, barring accidents that may have been beyond even a King's reach, I leave you a heavy hat, a wooden chair and a large hammer. One is a pain in the neck, one a pain in the behind and the last should be used neither too much nor too little."

"I will not ask that you make me proud for I know not what lies after the Stranger's grasp or if I will ever know aught of your reign. Instead, behave in a manner to make your own sons proud, as I hope you may take pride in me."


	34. Chapter 34

**Alliser IV**

Jeor Mormont had probably died when whatever happened to the Wall had reached Castle Black. If the Old Bear hadn't died then, he would probably have made himself known by now. Since no one had heard from him, he was dead and the Night's Watch - such as remained - needed a new Lord Commander, the 998th in their long history.

Well, 999th. It was commonly agreed that Jeor would have died before the battle on the Kingsroad and rumours (not to mention a truly excreable drinking song) had spread the word far and wide that Robert Baratheon had taken the oath of the Night's Watch before riding into his last battle. Or as he rode into the battle, depending on who you spoke to.

The late King, a great many men insisted, had plainly led the Night's Watch during the last stand and was therefore their Lord Commander. The fact that he hadn't been elected formally didn't matter to them. The fact that there didn't appear to have been a single confirmed member of the Night's Watch in that last stand didn't matter either.

Alliser Thorne thought it was a great deal of nonsense, but inasmuch as the Usurper was dead now he didn't think it mattered very much.

What did matter was that in the aftermath of the Baratheon's death, the Night's Watch had received scores of new recruits, and not the dungeon-scrapings that Thorne had seen before. A score of knights and more than three hundred footmen from the Westerland and Dornish levies had taken the black in the aftermath of the battle. A trickle more from the rest of the army, now camped in wooden forts around the northern end of Long Lake. Near a hundred men had marched into the largest sept of White Harbour and sworn their vows before a cheering crowd.

Cheering? Alliser didn't think he'd heard cheering since King's Landing was sacked. No one cheered the Night's Watch.

And yet they had. And these new recruits made up the larger part of the Watch now. A few score crew from the Watch's ships and men who had survived the fall of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Rodrik Harlaw's garrison of one hundred and twenty at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge - which, not being connected to the Wall, had survived largely unscathed. Only a third of the Watch had worn the black more than a few months, and it was already plain that that fraction would shrink.

"I'll support the measure. Send a raven to the Reader and tell him I agree that the brothers should vote twice: once on Robert Baratheon as the 998th Lord Commander and second for whoever is to be Lord Commander now."

The boy - barely old enough to shave - scurried out of the tent and Lord Umber laughed. The Northerner did that often although the nearness of Wights had given it a harsher edge. "It burns you, doesn't it."

"Baratheon? He died well."

"Any fool can die." The Greatjon's son, another Jon, had been with the Northern levies lost with the King's rearguard. "Any fool."

"He was many things. Not a fool though, damn his eyes." Alliser looked at the Lord of the Last Hearth. "And was Eddard Stark a fool?"

"That's our prince you speak of."

"Aye."

"A fool he was not." Umber rose and paced the cramped tent, head bowed to keep from scraping the fabric above him. "One of his Winterfell men led him away, wounded. If they lost the road in the night then they went east or west. East is my lands. Harsh lands, but Ned knows them. West though, into the mountains..."

Alliser nodded. It was an open question whether the mountains were a safe anchor for their defenses. If the Wights found a way through them then they could range southwards into the Wolfswood and tracking them would be all but impossible. "You believe he lives."

"Reed does."

"Reed?" The Watch brother searched his memory. One of the Northern houses?

"The Marsh Lord. Howland Reed - you've not met him?"

Armed with the full name he made the connection. "The one who went to Dorne with Stark after King's Landing fell?"

"That's him." The Greatjon nodded. "His folk have a touch of the uncanny to them but they're good scouts. Rickard Stark's children counted Howland a friend for years. If anyone can find Ned then it's him."

"He's gone searching for him then?"

Umber nodded. "Lady Lyanna asked him and he'd not say her no."

"Is she in charge then?"

"Well that's the question."

In theory the question should have been easily answered: the King had been in the field and clearly in command of the armies in the North. With him dead, command fell to the Warden of the North. With Ned Stark missing, command fell to the Warden of the West...

"Dondarrion didn't do poorly. And Marbrand likes him."

"They're not so bad for southerners, but Tully is Ned's goodbrother."

Alliser rubbed his chin. "And the wolf's cub?"

"He's but a boy and he's not seen battle yet."

"That won't last long." The wights had been seen as far south as the fords over the Last River. Alliser felt deep in his bones that it wouldn't be long before they pressed hard against the defences.

* * *

  
**Obara VII**

There was an army camped outside of Myr. Ten thousand strong, with archers, horsemen and even elephants; they bore a golden banner.

But the city's gates were open and trade continued without pause, for the Golden Company were in the employ of the magisters of Myr and all men knew that they held their contracts sacred. So long as their pay arrived, the great city was safe from them and from all but the most mighty of challengers. And their gold would arrive promptly for the magisters remembered how, almost ninety years before, the city of sorcerers had burned after they refused to honor their own contract with these men's forefathers.

Obara had been granted a small escort by her uncle and they approached the camp with the sun and spear banner flying above her head. "I am an emissary of Doran, Prince of Dorne," she announced to the guards at the entrance to the camp. "There is a matter I would speak of with your commander."

One of the guards murmured something under his breath. Obara only heard the word 'dornishwomen', but their serjeant heard more and elbowed the man. "Do you have a name for me to take to our Captain-General?" he asked more formally. He was scarred of face and golden rings hung from his ears, but his wargear was well-cared for. Obara reckoned the man formidable, perhaps as much so as the household guards of her uncle or her goodbrothers.

"Obara Martell," she answered. "Daughter of Oberyn Martell, the prince's brother."

While a messenger was sent to Captain-General Strickland, Obara backed her horse a polite distance from the guards. "Did you hear what the guard said?"

Areo Hotah nodded. "Dornish woman."

"He said it in the plural." She looked at the Norvos-born guardsman. "It seems that we aren't the first to arrive."

They were escorted into the camp, past rank after rank of sturdy tents, score after score of men preparing food, caring for their equipment or drilling with sword and spear. While she couldn't see it, Obara's ears picked out the sound of bow-strings. The Golden Company's archers were notorious - their founder Aegor Rivers had lost his half-brother Daemon Blackfyre to archers under the Bloodraven and he'd built a similar corps into his company when he formed them after the First Blackfyre Rebellion.

The commander of the Golden Company seemed curiously unmilitary. Harry Strickland wore armour but he was portly with mild grey eyes and thinning hair. "Lady Martell," he said, not rising from where he sat outside a tent no larger or grander than those she'd seen so far. "Or is that Lady Baratheon?"

"I'm here on my uncle's behalf, not my husband's."

"Divided loyalties. That must be interesting. I wouldn't know, of course."

Obara recalled her father telling her that his own sellsword career had foundered on finances. Strickland had taken over the Golden Company finances after Jon Connington absconded with much of their warchest and kept the company in funds. She wasn't sure how he handled the battlefield but it would be a mistake to underestimate him. "It can make life interesting."

"So what does Doran Martell want with our lowly band of exiles?"

"He's heard that in the absence of a black dragon to follow, the Golden Company has been approached by a red one." She paused and then hazarded a guess. "And, I would suspect, an emissary of his daughter."

"Your uncle is a long way off. Rumours are rarely reliable hearing."

"I didn't say he was listening to rumours."

"In the absence of a dragon, your uncle seems to have taken to following a stag. It would seem that we're at an uncertain time when it comes to loyalties."

"In such a time, it makes sense to consider all information before making a choice that could cost you dear. I'm sure you listened to Lysono Maar before you heard out... is it Nymeria that came here?"

Strickland laughed softly. "So why not hear you out. I may surely do so. Still, to share with you what your half-sister has said..."

Obara shrugged and wished she had her spear handy. "I wouldn't expect you to undermine your bargaining position. Of course, having alternatives only enhances that position. Has Jon Connington arrived yet?"

"Connington is a thief. If he returned, we'd hang him."

"It was said that Tywin Lannister shat gold. Unless you have the same talent, General, Connington left with less gold than was reputed. Some might suspect that he was allowed to leave. A thief would draw less attention than a proud Targaryen loyalist."

"Your uncle's eyes and ears impress me more than your tongue." Strickland rose to his feet and gestured to the tent. "Come in then, but it's crowded. Your guards remain outside."

"By all means."

The light inside the tent was dim. From descriptions she guessed the Volantean wearing a leopard skin around his shoulders was the current paymaster of the Golden Company, Gorys Edoryen. The Summer Islander must be Black Balaq, the captain of the archers. Both wore their wealth in golden arm-rings. She recalled that the count of such rings could tell how long a man had served with the sell-swords. The two men had more than she could casually count.

Jon Connington was ruddy haired although grey was beginning to touch upon it. He stood with the sleek black shadow that was Nymeria and a pale-haired young man - exceedingly handsome. She thought for a moment he might be the spymaster but as her eyes adjusted she saw he wore a tunic embroidered with a dragon.

"Cousin," he greeted her.

Obara inclined her head. "I have some memory of my aunt Elia. It would please me if her son lives."

"You look upon him."

"Then I am pleased."

"You have a son of your own."

"And a daughter."

"Baratheon children." Aegon gestured to one of the chairs at the table they stood around. "Let us sit and talk. I would not wish my cousin's children to suffer as my sister did."

They clustered around the table. Strickland took the seat at one end, Aegon facing him down the length of the table. The sellsword was flanked by his lieutenant, the purported prince by Connington and Nymeria. Obara was in the middle, outflanked and outnumbered. She followed her father's example and attacked.

"Robert Baratheon is dead and a significant number of his loyal lords are in the North, far from King's Landing. Do I correctly surmise the opportunity you see?" she asked Aegon.

"The Reach's armies are gathered but have not declared for Robert's son," Nymeria added quietly.

"Your pardon, Nym, but I am addressing the prince."

Who held the power? Connington glanced at Aegon but said nothing. Nymeria leant back in her chair and gestured casually. "My apologies for correcting you, sister. A habit from before your marriage."

Aegon placed his hands on the table. "Robert Baratheon was a formidable ruler, I'm not so prideful as to ignore that men might choose a proven lord over the rightful heir when that heir is young. Robert's death changes that and of the four Wardens two were lost with him, one is nearly doddering and the last is unable to control the Tyrells."

"You think that you can do better?"

"The Tyrells were loyal to my grandfather. With Tywin and Jaime Lannister now dead I have no quarrel with the Westerlands. The Stormlands I would be willing to guarantee to a Baratheon if one will kneel and the Crownlands are loyal to House Targaryen. The heir to the Vale is a child and the heir to the Riverlands is wed to a Tyrell. That leaves the North and they are in no position to bargain: they need the support of the south and I will not stint them."

"I can see how you feel that to be an appealing arguement, Prince Aegon." Obara shook her head. "But as anyone who has tried to court a widow knows, the flaws of the dead are often forgotten."

There was a guffaw from Strickland. "She's right there."

"Your grandfather, Aerys Targaryen, was feared and hated because there was no one he wouldn't put to death. Robert Baratheon's legacy is being preached by every Maester and half the septons of the Seven Kingdoms as the king who would die for any man loyal to him. Support for his son is strong and you cannot claim that."

"So you say this is not the time?" asked Balaq. "Some of my men have waited for four generations to return to their homes."

"The Golden Company is formidable," Obara admitted. "From what I have heard of you and from what I've seen, you might do well at first. But invading Westeros wouldn't unite it behind Prince Aegon - it wouldn't even unite House Targaryen behind him."

"My aunt and uncle, you mean?"

She turned back to the prince. "Your uncle left for the North months ago. He appears to deem any disagreement between himself and Robert Baratheon to be less important than fighting the Others. It's a position likely to win him support in the North. Should Eddard Baratheon prove less able than his father, support for House Targaryen may go to him."

Aegon frowned. "My father was his elder brother. My claim is stronger."

"And what of Daenerys Targaryen." Jon Connington leant forwards. "It is whispered that Robert had her locked away to ensure he could wed her to his heir."

"She would have much to offer as a queen." Obara leant back in her chair and looked at the three sellswords. "Tell me, how would the Golden Company array itself to fight against dragons?"

* * *

  
**Jon XVIII**

Stannis could have taken Robert's chair for the duration of his regency but had chosen otherwise. Eddard was almost four years from his majority but Stannis had declared that his nephew would sit in the Small Council to learn of ruling by seeing the government in action. The regent remained in the seat he'd used as Hand, next to his nephew, so Jon followed his example and seated himself in the same chair he'd used as Master of Laws.

Eddard reminded the new Hand of the King in some ways of Robert when he was younger although some quirk of ancestry had given him a brow more like his uncle's. He looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. It might be the case in fact.

Colemon and Davos Seaworth sat next to each other, which placed them between Jon and Stannis. On the other side of the young king, Stafford Lannister and Olenna Tyrell. Ser Brynden Tully wasn't expected - his brother was clinging to life by a thread and his nephew had led the Riverlands' levies north. Doing what he could for his family in addition to his duties to the Royal Guard were wearing the Blackfish down.

Arriving last, Sandor Clegane closed the door behind him and took a seat next to Lannister.

"What news from the North?" asked Stannis without preamble.

"Lord Robb Stark has formally stepped into his father's shoes as Warden of the North." Olenna folded her hands. "One sees his mother's hand since he's appointed his uncle Edmure to lead the army at Long Lake. The young Warden himself will join the eastern levies as they march north. They reached Ramsgate at last report and are marching up along the Broken Branch."

"And on the west coast?"

"The Redwyne fleet finally returned from sending the Westerlanders north. There's been quite an argument between Lord Tarly and Lord Redwyne but at least some of the ships are heading north with men from Hornhill and other lordships that have heeded Tarly over my son. Ten thousand strong, I'm told."

"That's no more than an eighth of what the Reach can field." Stafford Lannister was red-faced. "My lord regent, we can't tolerate this. With all respect to Lady Tyrell..."

"Don't feel you must spare my ears."

"His actions are treason. All it needs now is for Viserys Targaryen to appear at Highgarden and there could be a rebel army marching up the Roseroad towards King's Landing."

"Viserys hasn't been seen since Ser Tyrion dropped his party off north of the Wall. It would be difficult for him to reach Highgarden by now... but not impossible if another ship was waiting to collect him."

"It's too complicated."

All heads turned to Eddard. The boy coloured. "Viserys wouldn't rely on a complicated plan to get to Highgarden if that was his intention. A complicated plan has too many ways to fail. He'd have tried to take a ship south without being spotted."

"Likely, but he has Varys as an advisor it seems. That man has a more twisty mind."

Stannis nodded to Olenna. "Viserys is simply one example. We don't know his exact plans in returning to Westeros but until he's shown his hand we must assume he's guilty of no more than returning to Westeros in company with a banished man. There are many other possibilities and this is why the Reach must be brought into line."

There was no disagreement on that but...

"Tyrell has an army." Sandor Clegane deliberately cracked his knuckles. "How many men can we field against him?"

"With harvests coming in, we can call on more men from Dorne, the Westerlands and the Easterlands," Jon told him. "But we are discussing spearmen and archers at best. The knights and most of their trained warriors are in the North already."

"Force is not the only option." Olenna pressed her hands together. "My grandson is dead. If I return to Highgarden, Loras can be a rallying cry against Mace."

"Would he listen to you?"

The aged woman glared at Stafford Lannister for asking the question but declined to be drawn.

"Tyrell's obstructionism is based on authority." Davos Seaworth glanced at Stannis. "His position as Marshal against Tarly as Warden. We need a voice that is clearly superior."

"Hand, Regent or King then."

"No," Stannis said to his nephew before the boy could respond to the Lannister's point. "We cannot place an underage king in Tyrell's hands. I know some of the Reach lords whose lands border my own -"

"Your pardon, Prince Stannis, but your history with the Reachlords at Storm's End wouldn't make you the best choice here," Jon interjected. "I've been in correspondence with Randyll Tarly about the fostering of my sons and we're on good terms. If Lady Olenna and I both go to Highgarden then we can confront Lord Tyrell and his sworn lords on multiple levels."

Stannis looked at him and then Olenna. "Two more," he said after a moment's thought. "Robert's woman guard, her father has not gone north yet."

"Lord Tarth is to foster my elder son."

"Have him meet you at Highgarden. Take your sons there to meet their new foster-fathers."

Jon paused. If things went ill, if he and his sons were lost... Stannis' sons were the grandsons of his sister and they had a strong claim on the Vale. Was Ironfoot growing ambitious? He'd pushed to be Hand after Ned went North again. "And the fourth?" he asked.

"We need a Master of Laws. Who better to lay down the laws?"

"Do you have someone in mind?"

"My cousin Tyrion has excellent wit and is on good terms with Lord Redwyne," offered Stafford Lannister.

"Ser Tyrion has merits but he serves us well in his current position." Stannis dismissed the nomination with a raised hand. "Dorne was faithful to my brother in the end and Doran's brother is well educated - he went to the Citadel did he not?"

"The Red Viper!" exclaimed Olenna. "You cannot mean..."

Stannis held up his hand. "The Reach is full of summer knights. Tarly is heeded best by older men, but Tyrell by the young and ill-experienced. They would see the crown as represented only by two old men and a woman. Fools, but we must show them vigor too. Oberyn Martell does not lack for that."

"I had thought him in Essos."

Olenna shook her head. "No, he has returned." Her eyes narrowed. "His daughter is there though."

Renly's widow or at least thus it was assumed.

"Her children remain in our care," Stannis said flatly. "The Martells called for justice in the name of their sister, years ago. Now Prince Oberyn will dispense justice in our king's name."

* * *

  
**Viserys XV**

After so long in the North, Viserys had thought that he barely noticed the cold. As his boots crunched through the crisp fresh snow he learned it over again. Under the thin layer of snow, frozen bodies littered the slope they were walking up.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen the aftermath of battle, but usually the fighting was barely over when the camp followers entered the battlefield. The reasons might vary - dragging the wounded to a no-doubt overworked Maester, looting the bodies of valuables - but he'd never seen one before which had evidently been neglected for weeks except for crows, foxes and other scavengers.

He could only thank the Gods that the North wasn't as warm as some of the battlefields he'd seen or the scent would have been horrifying.

He'd tried marching faster to get past it, but stumbled over the bodies. In the end there was no choice but to slow and pick his way across it - unless they diverted into the trees.

"Viserys." Varys' voice lacked the energy to catch his attention at first.

It took him a moment to realise his name had been called. Pausing, the Targaryen turned and saw the short broad form of the eunuch standing looking at one cluster of bodies. "What?" he asked wearily.

"You need to see this."

"I need to get south of this before the sun sets. I don't want to camp in this."

Varys didn't start walking again, he just looked at Viserys and after a moment the younger man sighed and made his way back down the slope. "This had better be good."

"Not good... exactly."

Bronn and Thoros stood flanking Varys, who had dropped into a crouch over one of the bodies. As Viserys reached them, the Blackfyre straightened, dragging the body up into a seating position. A big man, wearing a thick tunic of fine black furs beneath half-armour. His head sagged back, neck clearly unable to bear the weight of its helm which slipped free.

A helm that Viserys knew.

Wordlessly, the knight lifted it and brushed aside the snow. It was a sturdy greathelm, well-forged. Rising from the temples were long and jagged antlers, signifying the arms of House Baratheon and turning the wearer into a godlike figure, a theme deliberately harkening to the ancient origins of the Baratheon's Durradan ancestors - said to be descended of the Storm God.

"Let me see," he said quietly.

The face had been protected by the helmet from scavengers, except below the jaw where the cords securing the helm had been gnawed through. It was pallid though, the eyes vacant. Greying black hair, a short beard.

A sob tore its way past his throat.

"Viserys?"

"I wanted to kill him myself!" he screamed, stoking the anger in his heart. "Damn you!" He cast around in the snow and found with no surprise that Robert's hammer had fallen not far from his hand. Lifting it with both hands he hurled it northwards, although the weight of it meant that it landed only a few feet from him. "Damn you," he whispered.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Varys' face near to his. "I hated him."

"I had a theory, years ago," the eunuch said quietly. "When I first left Westeros. About why he spared you."

When Viserys said nothing, he continued: "Robert was brought to court when he was a boy. Jon Arryn had business at King's Landing, it was a chance for Robert to meet Lord Steffon who held Aerys' favour. I hadn't been recalled there at the time. By all accounts, Robert bedded several maids. His father was very proud."

"I have trouble imagining that."

"I calculated the date as about nine months before you were born."

"Wh- you- are...?" The very implication chilled Viserys' blood.

"Turned out I had the dates wrong. Maybe he was just a good man." Varys patted Viserys on the shoulder. "Strange, but good."

Viserys just looked at the no longer portly man as he turned away and started helping Thoros and Bronn check the other bodies.

In the end they found the remains of an army's camp at the top of the hill. As with the battlefield it hadn't been stripped of everything of value. Much of the food left there had spoiled but not all of it. There were tents, cooking pots... even firewood under a blanket that had kept it from being soaked.

They made a fire and through the shrinking light they hauled Robert's body back up the hill, along with those items they had found that they found of note. The hammer. The helm. Daggers of dragonglass, two for each of the quartet. Two breastplates marking members of the Royal Guards.

"The roses of Highgarden," Viserys said, examining the latter. "And the sun and moon of Tarth. I don't know which of the Tyrells it is and I didn't think Selwyn Tarth had any living sons."

"We took it off a woman." Bronn stretched out his legs. "Wish she was alive. I could do with a woman."

"Should we burn the body?" Viserys changed the subject, pointing at where Robert lay, hands folded across the haft of his hammer. "Make sure he doesn't rise?"

"If he hasn't risen yet, he won't," the sellsword told him.

Varys handed Viserys one of the daggers. "This was embedded in his thigh. I think someone stabbed the king with it to prevent him from rising."

"And you took it out?"

"Most of those we found are damaged." Varys held his hands out to the fire. "We could burn him to be sure. I doubt he'd mind."

"I'm not carrying him all the way to wherever we're going," warned Bronn soggily. He'd found a cask of cider and was on his second mug.

"What if..."

The other three looked at Thoros. "Well?" asked Viserys. "Don't stop." The warmth of the fire and a small cup of cider was beginning to eat away at the shock of finding Robert.

"He means do to your king what he did to me," said Bronn. He looked up and sneered at the surprised expression on Varys and Thoros' faces. "What, you thought I wouldn't guess? I've not felt right since that night."

"What do you mean?"

"They didn't tell you?" Bronn refilled his mug. "I died there in the dark. Throat slit in the night. Thoros brought me back. Bastard."

Viserys stared at the Red Priest. "That's impossible, isn't it?"

"I thought so," the man said. "It's a funeral rite. It's never happened before. I suppose... R'hllor has plans for you."

Bronn expressed exactly what R'hllor could do with his plans, in graphic terms. "Burn him yourself," he told Viserys. "Those are your house words, right."

"Bronn, you have a gift."

The grizzled mercenary took up one of the dragonglass daggers by the blade and flipped it, catching the hilt dextrously. "Do you think if I scratch myself with this your god will take the gift back?"

Viserys held out his hand to Bronn, meeting his eyes. After a long hesitation, the sellsword handed the dagger over. Without a word, Viserys put the blade away and took a burning log from the fire to lay on Robert's breast in place of the hammer. He stacked several more logs over the dead king's body and walked back to the others as the flames spread slowly.

As he reached Bronn, he crouched and whispered in the other man's ear: "I still hear Bloodraven when I sleep."

Bronn sighed. Then he took the cask of cider and refilled his own mug and Viserys' cup.

"That's about what I thought," agreed the silver-haired man and the two drained the cider down to the dregs.


	35. Chapter 35

**Stannis XVIII**

Stannis had been up late dealing with the Crown's accounts and then he'd been woken well before dawn by bad news. Two of the Royal Guards standing on either side of a ragged looking squire wasn't what he wanted when he reached his breakfast table. Then he realised whose squire it was.

"Samwell Tarly." Stannis gestured to another seat at the table. "You've made fast passage."

The young man accepted the offered seat, head hung low. One of the servants put a flatbread in front of him and loaded it with bacon, cheese and a fried egg. "The ship from White Harbor sighted land before sunset, my lord regent."

The same was put in front of Stannis and his goblet was filled with the juices of freshly squeezed fruit from the Summer Isles. The sharp taste chased away some of the cobwebs of fatigue. On the one hand it was a ridiculous expense but on the other, how valuable was being able to think clearly? "You were there when Robert died?"

Tarly had just bitten into the flatbread. He chewed quickly and swallowed. "The king sent me away as the fighting started," he confessed. "As soon as he heard that we were out-flanked he started sending men back to retreat."

"Why didn't he retreat himself?" He thought he knew the answer but confirmation would be valuable.

"I wasn't there. I... one of the pages said that when Prince Stark was wounded the King took charge of the rearguard."

Stannis used his knife to cut away part of the flatbread and rolled it to contain the contents. Unlike Sam's travel-stained leathers he wore court velvets and Aemma insisted he try to keep them clean for appearances' sake. "No one so far reports seeing his body."

Sam nodded. "Prince Stark or Prince Lannister?"

"Nor theirs." He took a bite and chewed. "You won't have heard yet."

The boy looked at him blankly. Gods, he was a different one from his sire. "Another death, Prince Stannis?"

"Jon Arryn slipped on the stairs late last night. The servants found him this morning. Your father is the only battle-tested Warden left and he can't get Mace Tyrell out of Highgarden."

Swallowing another mouthful, Sam lifted his saddlebag into his lap. "His grace showed me your letters about father. I brought his papers with me." He reached into the bag and produced a simple gold circlet. "And this." Three Targaryen kings had worn it. And one Baratheon. Stannis could already imagine it sitting on his nephew's black curls.

Stannis stared at the crown. It almost distracted him from more papers to look at. "You've done well."

"I did nothing of note."

"You did what you were told. That isn't as common as you might think. Or as easy." He looked the boy over but he didn't seem to have realised that was a veiled criticism of his father. "You were Robert's squire. What will your father want for you now?"

"I..." The boy shook his head. "What can I do to serve King Eddard best?"

Good answer. Stannis considered. He needed a new Hand to help him with this. Colemon and Brynden Tully were too busy, Stafford Lannister was competent in his current position but not beyond that, Oberyn Martell's loyalties weren't something he was sure of. That left... Davos Seaworth or bringing someone else in.

There hadn't been a commoner Hand in centuries... but Septon Barth wasn't the worst example. It would mean finding another Master of Ships but there were several capable captains. Renly might have been ready for the job...

"My lord regent?"

Stannis realised he'd been lost in thought for a moment. "Mace Tyrell continues to insist that that he is preparing the Reach's armies for employment as rapidly as possible. He speaks of deficiencies in their wargear and training that he is making good. Robert told me you had a good head for figures and the like."

Sam nodded nervously.

"Two of the Small Council will be going to Highgarden. I'd like you to go with them." He paused in realisation that Davos probably wouldn't impress Mace as Hand. Someone else would need to impress royal authority... "My niece Cassana will go with them to represent the crown's authority. I entrust you with her protection."

"I-I-I'm not the best swordsman," confessed the boy.

"I don't expect you to defeat thousands of Reachmen. Oberyn Martell will be there if more reasonable levels of violence are called for. What I expect you to do is to watch out for the perils of court... and of courtship. She's at that age and I absolutely prohibit any marriage or any behaviour that might affect her marriage prospects."

"How should I...?"

"Use your imagination. Cassana can read and in my experience brash young knights avoid ink and paper like the plague." Stannis took another bite of his breakfast. Gods, he'd need to organise a state funeral for Jon. At least everyone would still have suitable mourning garb.

* * *

  
**Sansa V**

The White Keep was echoingly vast, with halls and grand processionals that stretched for miles. It was also startlingly empty. Sansa had seen dead men standing as guards and a smattering she guessed were used as servants but far fewer than she would have seen in Winterfell. No doubt there were more that she had not seen but it was possible to look out of a window and see nothing moving below in a great swathe of the fortress.

Of the wights' masters she had seen little - pale of skin and hair, eyes that blazed like azure fire. Sansa had heard Old Nan's tales and when she saw what became of Renly's eyes she had thought of them as an example. But now she knew there was no comparison. The empty eyes of the dead were very different.

She and Cersei had been provided with shifts of some shimmering material that was not silk. It wasn't excessively warm but as an added outer layer to their dresses and cloaks it helped. Sansa thought it might be the same fabric as the robes of the Others.

Looking out through the window - which was sealed with ice as flawlessly clear as the finest of Myrish ice - she saw no smoke from any of the other towers. Just heavy clouds that kept them in constant shadow.

"I would welcome a fire," Cersei told her. "But a people who build of ice would not want to create warmth that could melt it."

Despite the lack of a fire, the tower was merely chilly and not freezing. Their food was raw meats, root vegetables and nuts. It had been prepared somehow, although even her aunt didn't recognise the style. At first they counted meals and days but the days seemed to blend into one and after a while they could no longer agree how long they had been prisoners. Aunt Cersei said Sansa's hair hung at least a hand-span longer than it had once, and her cuffs were now embarrassingly short against her wrists.

The monotony of their new existence broke without warning as the door to the tower opened and the feet on the stair had the sound of steel-clad boots rather than the soft fur boots that the wight who brought them food wore. Sansa had time to rise from where she had been trying to answer Cersei quizzing her on the houses and banners of the Easterlands.

The man who entered first was a familiar lined face marked by the cold blue eyes of a wight. Lord Barristan Selmy stepped to one side and bowed slightly in a grim parody of the knightly manners Sansa had admired when the lord visited Winterfell occasionally.

Cersei responded to the courtesy by giving him a curtsey that somehow expressed cool disdain for his very existence. Sansa followed her out of the room and down the stair. Selmy followed them wordlessly. Glancing back, Sansa wondered if there might come a day when some bold and noble knight might come to rescue the two of them. If so, she doubted she would dare to believe in such a hope.

And if Lord Selmy was as able a knight in death as he was in life, would such a hero stand a chance?

A second knight waited at the foot of the stair. Wearing bright plate and a crimson cape, his golden hair completed the heroic knight that Sansa had been imagining. At the sight of him, Cersei stumbled over the bottom step and fell to the floor. Although the knight was well placed to catch her, he did not.

Sansa helped her aunt and looked up at the wight. She was struck by the face - very like Cersei's with high cheekbones and fair skin. Then she was struck again - lightly, but more literally this time as Lord Selmy pushed her onwards.

Cersei seemed to have no strength in her legs and Sansa had to half-support her, staggering down the hallway with the taller woman leant against her. They were almost cheek to cheek and she could feel a tear trickling down between the two.

"Who is he?" she whispered.

Her answer was a choked phrase that made no sense to her: "My other half." Giving voice to that seemed to restore something of Cersei's spirit and she raised her chin. A few steps more and Sansa was no longer supporting her weight. "You're a good child, Sansa. Your family should have taught you that the world is a cruel place."

They were directed through long, echoingly vacant corridors. As they passed one junction, Sansa saw a long hall with hundreds of wights kneeling in ranks, eyes half-lidded. Some were armoured, some not. All bore weapons. The only order to them was their positions - as precise as pieces on a cyvasse board.

As best Sansa could guess, they were approaching the centre of the White Keep. The blond wight led them to a tall door and as they approached the two door panels seemed to slide upwards. The edges rose up from the floor and she realised the doors were actually spinning like a wheel, the carved panels rolling away before she could take in what was marked upon them.

Inside was a hexagonal hall, dim and shadowy as light poured through windows high above. A tree stood in the centre and at first Sansa was elated to see something alive after so long in this constrained world of ice and the dead. Then her fingers tightened on Cersei's as she saw that it wasn't a living tree. Leafless white weirwood branches stretched up from a trunk and roots that had been patched with carvings of an oily black stone, and these burrowed into the ice of the floor and perhaps deeper still.

Branches converged upon a point amid the roots that was shaped somewhat like a pair of thrones. One of the Others sat upon the larger of these, legs crossed at the knee. Upon the breast of his robe, ice filigree sparkled like gems despite the faint light.

More of the Others stood in two lines flanking the route to the tree. As the two women were led between them Sansa tried not to meet their eyes. She couldn't escape the cracking, staccato sound of their voices as they spoke to each other in low tones.

The Other on the throne - their lord or king, Sansa suspected - rose to his feet as they reached the foot of the tree. Before he could speak however, Cersei drew herself up. "I am Cersei Stark, Lady of Queenscrown and jewel of the West. Whom do I face?"

The Others ceased to talk and an oppressive silence fell upon the hall.

Then the lord of the Others spoke up. Sansa didn't understand what he said but in his voice like breaking ice she was sure that she could make out the name of her house.

Cersei shrieked as her wrists were seized by the wights. White hair and gold hair they dragged her up to the tree. Sansa realised that the golden hair of the second knight was identical in shade to Cersei and felt like a fool. He must surely be Prince Jaime Lannister, Aunt Cersei's twin.

Roughly, the pair forced Sansa's aunt into the second throne and held her there by shoulder and wrist. Beside them the Other's leader resumed his seat, placed his hands on the arm-rests of his throne and leant his head back. Sansa realised that the tree branches above the thrones branched into crowns of weirwood above the heads of those seated.

A cry of alarm from Cersei and the sound of tearing cloth brought the girl's attention back to her aunt. It took her a moment to realise that the tree root that made up the throne had grown new branches of ice. She had to stifle a scream as she saw that those branches, tiny as they were, now pierced Cersei. While they seemed to pass without issue through the shift, cloak and dress had torn as the ice penetrated them.

Sansa couldn't see how the ice entered Cersei but from the red hue the ice was taking she was sure that it was.

Then the branch above swayed and the crown of weirwood touched the golden blonde head beneath it. Cersei's shrieks cut off. Looking around, Sansa could see all of the Others were eyeing the tree expectantly. She turned her head and saw the doors behind her were still open. She felt a terrible temptation to flee, but where to?

Then the Other upon the throne roared.

The sound echoed around the chamber. For a moment she thought the roof was collapsing upon them. Save for the Horn that Renly had brought to Queenscrown, she had heard nothing so loud.

The Other leapt from where he sat, brushing aside the two wights as he seized Cersei and heaved her up out of the throne, careless of the branching ice that he broke. Cersei gasped for breath as she dangled from his hands, one of which had seized her around her long slender neck.

He spoke again, in that crackling tongue which Sansa made no sense of, but then he spoke again and she got the distinct impression he was repeating himself.

"Thou art no Stark!" the Other declared in cold fury, the Common Tongue accented strangely. Almost like the fragments of the Old Tongue that Maester Luwin had taught Sansa when she was younger and had a fascination with the older songs said to tell of the Age of Heroes.

Cersei choked, face reddening as blood trickled down to her dangling feet and droplets soiled the white ice beneath her.

"Stop! Stop!" called Sansa. She tried to rush forward but one of the Wights caught hold of her shoulder, a hand cold even through her cloak and dress. "She's my aunt. She married a Stark!"

The Other did not stop. Did not release Cersei. "Art thou of the elders' blood then?"

"Yes! Yes, I am," Sansa declared, hoping that he meant the blood of the Old Tongue's speakers, the First Men. "Don't hurt her, please!"

"Pain..." He tilted his head and the blue of his eyes was pitiless. Not cruel, merely...

Sansa trembled.

"Pain is life, little one." He closed his fingers and Cersei ceased to choke. Her eyes bulged and with her free hand she clawed at the Other's hands.

Sansa cried out and tears trickled down her face and into the collar of her dress as Cersei's movements weakened.

"Thy false Stark is no longer in pain," the Other said with finality as he released the woman to lie broken beneath the tree. "Shouldst thou lie to me, thou shall know pain and life well, thou who claims the elders' blood."

* * *

  
**Ned XIX**

The direwolves didn't follow roads or straight lines. With clouds in the night there were no stars to judge directions and save for checking which side of rocks the moss grew on, it was hard for Ned to say where they were going. He was sure though that he had little choice but to accompany them. The meat from the horses had kept them alive for a few days but without them they couldn't ride and Ned was too weak after the loss of his arm to walk far.

Walder half-carried him when they travelled and sometimes when the big man tired, the largest of the direwolves would deign to let him ride upon her. The gait of a wolf wasn't at all like a horse, however, and with no riding tack - the white wolf had snatched what Walder salvaged from the two horses and torn it apart the first time they tried to persuade the mother wolf to wear a saddle. That made riding a last resort.

"We haven't crossed a river," he told Walder. "We can't have gone far to the south unless we're a long way east of the Last Hearth. I don't think we've crossed the Kingsroad either."

Walder grunted in thought and used his grip around Ned's shoulders to lift him up a steep section of the hill they were climbing. "There was a road."

That brought a grimace to Ned's face. "I missed that?"

"Snowing."

"Ah." That could have explained it. The direwolves didn't stop for fresh snow and if visibility was low - and the ground covered in snow - then the Kingsroad might easily have been mistaken for a broad clearing in the forests. "We're headed towards the mountains then."

The mountains would be harder going and Ned thought the hunting would be poorer. Since the two of them were largely dependent upon the direwolves for their food that could be a problem. The matter had been on his mind a lot, so much so that almost every night in his dreams he saw the pack hunting.

That night was no different and Ned woke, mouth full of the taste of elk. He'd dreamed that the pack had brought one down and as he sat up he saw that the carcass they'd dragged in was indeed an elk. Perhaps the smell of his musk had led him to dream of that.

The pack, most of them scattered around the embers of the fire, rose as Ned did. At first he thought it was in response to them but he saw that their hackles were up and they all faced the path they had taken the previous day. Was someone following them? Wights? Ned reached over and shook Walder's shoulder, waking the big man.

The white direwolf growled deep in his throat and Ned followed the red-eyed gaze to a holly bush near the trail. On squinting he thought he saw movement... and then a man's shape became clear, stepping clear of the holly.

"Howland!"

"Ned." The marshlord raised one hand but this seemed to trigger the direwolves alarm and they bounded forward.

The prince shouted in alarm, pulling Ice free of it's scabbard one handed in the hope he could use it. The little man was his friend - and he could envisage him being torn asunder by the direwolves as easily as the horses had.

Howland dropped beneath the bounding direwolves, twisted and rolled. His cloak, covered in leaves, came free of his shoulders and two of the great beasts seized it in their jaws and tore it asunder.

"Stop!" roared Ned. "Stop!"

The pack's heads turned towards him, teeth bared, and Ned drew back his own lips in response. Ice was in his hand and if they came at him he would bury it in the chest of at least one of them...

Starks didn't abandon their pack.

The moment drew out and Ned stepped forwards, concious of his legs shaking. He walked until he stood over where Howland lay, eyes on the direwolves. "Back," he ordered, as he would have his own guards.

The direwolves stared at him and then, slowly, they relaxed and turned away.

He thrust Ice's tip into the ground and leant on it.

"I don't believe it," murmured Howland.

"Nor I..."

The little man stood and looked at his cloak regretfully. "Prince Stark." They gripped each other's wrists in greeting. "You've been missed, Ned."

"I can imagine. Did Robert send you after me?"

Howland looked away. "Your sister."

A cold chill crept along Ned's spine. "And Robert."

"I'm told," the Lord of Greywater said, deliberately, "That he took command of the rear-guard. That he and five thousand Northerners held the wights back so that the rest of the army could retreat." He paused. "None have been seen since."

"Gods." Robert missing, probably dead. "My family? Prince Lannister?"

"Robb is acting as Warden in name while your goodbrother makes the decisions. Your lady wife governs in Winterfell and your sister at Long Lake."

"I take it then that there's no news from Queenscrown."

Howland shook his head. "For good or ill I have heard no news of what has happened there or to most of the Wall."

Ned swayed and felt Walder steadying him. "And I've been wandering uselessly in the woods."

"Be grateful your arm doesn't seem to have been infected with anything," Howland told him. "But if it's all the same to your direwolves, it would relieve many if you returned to Long Lake. Unless you're doing something more important?"

"I can never tell if you're jesting or not."

Ned's old friend looked up at him. "There is old blood in both our houses. When the Others return, who could question that the Stark might commune with direwolves?"

"I can't commune with direwolves, Howland."

The Reed gave the Stark a thoughtful look. "Have you ever tried?"

* * *

  
**Sansa VI**

It was more than a week before Sansa was brought back to the tree-thrones. The tower-chamber was echoingly empty without her aunt. Although... it was not entirely without her presence.

The Others appeared not to wish to waste the body. Sansa screamed at the top of her voice the first time she saw Cersei's face above the platter of food being delivered, eyes the blue of a wight and not the Lannister green that the girl was accustomed to.

She'd managed to get past that since then but she was glad Cersei was not there when the same two knights arrived to take her to the Others. It was terrifying enough without the living... unliving... reminder of what had happened to her aunt in the same chamber.

It was all as she recalled - white weirwood and black stone, rising out of ice and bound together by the same. The Others stood in two ranks once again - she was uncertain of their faces but she thought they might be the same ones as last time - certainly their lord was.

Yet his manner was different. Had he been a man she would have thought that his pose when she first came here was relaxed and confident. He'd been angered that Cersei wasn't what he had thought. That didn't take a genius to realise so perhaps the same mannerism had held true before he...

And now, she thought. Now he stood before the tree, studying it. He whirled as she entered, the skirts of his long robe flaring around his legs. The lord extended his hand towards her and beckoned.

Cersei had told her once that sometimes you have no choice but to obey... but you may have a choice in how you obey. Sansa stepped forwards before the wights could force her, crossing between the line of Others and curtseying before the lord.

"Thou art Stark, of the elder blood?"

She raised her eyes and tried not to tremble as she stared into the fiery blue eyes. "My father is Eddard, Prince Stark, son of Rickard Stark and of Lyarra, whose father was Rodrik Stark, brother to Rickard's grandsire William."

"And does thy mother's lineage dilute the blood?"

She guessed that he meant descent from First Men houses. "My mother is of the House of Tully, whose history is no shorter than that of the Starks." At the least, the Tullys had a history dating back to the Age of Heroes.

The lord bared his teeth and she didn't believe it was to smile. "Takest thy place."

Sansa approached the throne Cersei had been seated upon. The ice was no longer stained by her aunt's blood. She hesitated - the seat and arms seemed flat and featureless but she'd seen how it stabbed at the occupant. Hesitation, however, wasn't a reaction acceptable to the Others' lord. He spoke - no longer in his somewhat antiquated Common but in the language of his folk and Sansa's arms were seized by Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister. The two wights abruptly turned her around and pushed her into the seat.

She tensed, expecting the pain of being penetrated as Cersei had been but what she felt instead was cold. The cold of the seat beneath her - her cloak and skirts really weren't sufficient insulation from it. And then another chill, one that was bone-deep.

When the girl blinked her eyes the wights were gone, as were the observing Others. Sansa turned her head to the left and saw the lord of the Others watching her from the throne. "Thou art as thou claimed," he said calmly. "And of use to me. Now fly."

"Fly?"

His eyes narrowed dangrously and then relaxed. "An untutored youth, yet thou shallst learn and perhaps such is for the better." He reached out and his cold fingers closed around hers. "First, stand."

Sansa rose, looking around in confusion. The hall was empty save for them and from the tree with its rust-red leaves... there had been no leaves when she sat down.

"Take flight," the lord directed and gestured upwards to the crystalline ceiling. When she hesitated he pulled her hand sharply upwards.

She shrieked and found herself hurtling upwards. Past the branches - past the panes of clear ice that should have sealed her in - past the clouds above until she could see the North spread beneath like a tapestry map laid out upon the tables of the great hall for repairs. Was this what the famous painted table at Dragonstone looked like, so much more than a mere map?

"This can't be real."

When she looked at the lord of the Others she saw him examining a bird that circled beside where they drifted in the air. Beneath them, clouds hid the White Keep from view. He looked at her and his lips drew back. It wasn't reassuring - it made his face seem more skull-like. "Thus," he commanded and pointed south of east, towards where she thought the lands of the Karstarks might lie.

"I don't..." She reached out tenatively in that direction and found herself with a face full of sea gull. The bird flew straight through her, part of a huge flock over... was this the shore of the Shivering Sea?

Was she truly flying? Was she even here at all? Was she a ghost, bound to the service of the Others in spirit as so many men and women's dead bodies seemed to be? She sniffed and could smell the gulls' greasy feathers.

The Other pointed again, this time south of west. Sansa obediently reached out and this time found herself standing on a moorland hill. A white fox was looking up at her... or past her. She turned and saw thet below the hill an army marched across the moors.

They flew no banners and the order of the march was nothing Sansa could understand - the colours of a score of houses intermingled just in the nearest company, though they did form precise ranks if they were orderly in no other respect. Even from this distance, it took no brilliance to guess that these were wights, for no small number wore the black of the Night's Watch and they marched southwards.

Sansa looked at the Others' lord and he seemed pleased by this, walking down the slope towards the host of men. More warily, the girl tried to remain upon the hill, trying to see an end of the long column of dead men. It was not to be - despite no material connection between them she felt an irresistable pressure to follow after the Other.

She tried not to meet the dead blue eyes of the warriors. Many were no older than her own brothers and cousins.

Fortunately for her tears, the Other turned away after only a short inspection of the column. "That way," he directed tersely, pointing to the west. Sansa cringed at the fact that he was pointing towards the wights and tried to reach past them...

The Other screamed as they found themselves above a roadway and bolted for the north without hesitation. Sansa felt a distinct urge to copy him, if in another direction, for upon the road was a man made all of flame.

She could feel the heat of the flames from where she hung in the air. It didn't seem to bother his companions though - three men, all armed with swords. While motley, she doubted that they were wights. Two of them, both solidly built, were carrying a crude sling between them, each with a shoulder beneath the length of...

"The king's hammer?" she exclaimed.

The words seemed to draw the attention of the burning man and of the fourth man, who was silver of hair and beard. Sansa considered for a moment trying to speak to them but as before, the pressure of the wight lord's absence was dragging her after him.

She stepped in the air and found herself not with her captor - though she still felt the pull drawing her further northwards. It was the road again and an entire pack of wolves prowled along it. Towards the back, the familiar mass of Walder, from Winterfell's stables, dragged a crude sledge and laid upon it, still and silent lay...

"Father!"

She saw the small, unfamiliar man helping Walder guide the sledge look up but that was't the reaction that startled her away from her father's limp form.

"Sansa?" One of the direwolves turned towards her.

"Did you... did you just speak?" Then the nature of the voice sank in. "F-father?"

"Sansa, how are you here?" The direwolf, all grey fur and great yellow eyes, spoke with the voice she remembered so keenly.

"Oh father, I'm..." She felt the pull and stumbled, trying to fight against it. "Father, help me!"

The wolf bounded after her as she was pulled north. "What's happening? What can I do?"

"The Others... the Others have me!" she sobbed. "A White Keep, where the Wall stood..." She swallowed, the scene wavering before her eyes. "There's an army coming! To the east, across the moors! You have to -"

Between one blink and the next her father was gone. The Others stood before her and she was beneath the tree once more, the throne of ice beneath her and long, thorny roots of ice embracing her... piercing her.

The girl's back arched in sudden agony as her body's state was revealed to her. She felt her head smack against the back of the throne and before darkness took her she heard a wolf's howl tear from her own throat.


	36. Chapter 36

**Varys XV**

The bridge over the Last River wasn't defended by wights. To Varys' mind that suggested that either the wights hadn't advanced south this far or they had already marched well beyond that point. Either seemed possible but both assumed that the Others directing them thought as men did.

"You're overcomplicating this," Viserys told him. "We want to go south. The way isn't blocked which is good."

"When things go too well, it's probably a trap."

"You're just a regular ray of sunshine," Bronn grumbled as he followed Viserys past Varys. It was their turn to carry King Robert's hammer, a crude sack of their food supplies, crammed between helmet and two breastplates, hung from the haft of the hammer between them.

Varys shrugged and followed them. Perhaps he was being over-cautious but it seemed to him that with menace all around, some forethought was in order. His hand brushed against the hilt of Dark Sister and he smiled. For all he carried a sword now, he would not consider himself a warrior. Perhaps that was one of the deepest differences between he and the others. Viserys didn't have the build to wield Robert's hammer and seemed to have no inclination to retain Dawn. Would he ask for Dark Sister one day? Would Varys render it up?

He smiled to himself. Would Viserys pay his price? That was a more interesting question.

As the little group reached the far end of the bridge there was a call from behind. Varys turned sharply and saw a mass of fur and fangs emerging from the forest on the northern shore. Direwolves! he thought in horror. A half-dozen of them - each as large or larger than he.

Viserys and Bronn dropped their burdens and rushed back to join Varys and Thoros. "Form a line," Viserys ordered, taking charge. "Don't let them get behind us or we're all dead."

The direwolves didn't charge however and soon a handful of men emerged from the trees before them. One small and slightly built, one a near-giant and the third leaning against the second.

"What men travel with wolves?" asked Thoros in surprise.

"A Stark," Varys replied, recognising one face at least. It had been more than sixteen years since he'd seen Eddard Stark but the long face and dour expression had changed less since the first days of Robert's reign than those of many others. Probably including his own, although he blamed the North more than the years. He stepped forwards and raised his hand. "Prince Stark, we had not thought to see you come to welcome us yourself."

"Varys." Closer and the lines on Stark's face were easier to see. So was the empty sleeve tucked through the prince's belt. "Were you not banished?"

"I had no intention of straying south of the Wall, your highness. Yet I fear I have yet to lay eyes upon it."

Stark grunted and looked at the others. "Ser Viserys." Then he looked at the sword in the Targaryen's hand and back at the man who carried it.

Viserys coloured. "I'm returning it to Ser Arthur's family. By a somewhat indirect route I suppose."

"I hadn't heard he was dead. Was he north of the Wall too?"

"He died in Pentos." Viserys looked as if he would say more and then shrugged. "You seem to be in strange company."

"You've not met Lord Reed then," he pointed at the smaller man. "And Walder is a loyal retainer of my house."

"I haven't previously had the pleasure."

Varys glanced at the direwolves. They, in turn, were watching him. "Perhaps we could discuss on the walk. We have some food still but it's likely several days before we reach the next villages, if our map is of any accuracy."

"There are forts perhaps five days to our south." Howland's voice was quiet. "Three if we forced the pace but..."

"I'm not made of glass, Howland."

"If you'll pardon me for saying so, Prince Stark, you don't appear entirely robust." Varys gave the man a sympathetic smile. "Pray don't place us in the position of explaining to your sister why you collapsed almost within sight of her lands."

Stark's shoulders slumped. "Aye, but we must make the best time we can. There's an army to the east and we must alert the Karstarks and Boltons."

Varys spread a map of the North before his mind's eye. "The Umbers at Last Hearth?"

"They should already be aware." Ned grimaced. "And the army's on the moors not in the forests near the Umber Lands."

"You are remarkably well informed, Prince Stark." Varys bowed. What was going on here. "We shall make such pace as we can then."

By unspoken accord they crossed the bridge and Viserys lifted the hammer, this time sharing the load with Thoros. Stark gave the weapon a second glance and then shook his head. "You seem to be collecting other men's weapons."

"Should I have left it for the wights?"

"No. Robert would have wanted his son to have it. I take it that he's..."

Thoros grunted as he took up the weight. "The prince burned King Robert's body."

Stark's eyebrows arched at that title.

Viserys sighed. "In the interests of keeping the peace, Prince Stark -" There was more than a hair of emphasis on the northerner's title. "- I dispute only whether your foster brother - my foster father - was the rightful king. I freely admit that he was a fairly good king."

Varys almost stumbled, which would have been tragic since everyone except Stark's retainer had expressions he would treasure as memories.

"On balance," the Targaryen added with a wicked grin, "It was a very unfortunate time for him to die. No one would expect me to do more than grudgingly acquiesce to his leadership against the Others. Eddard's my foster-brother and I actually like him. I'm sure he only died to spite me."

"Is he always like this?"

"He's been in a very strange mood since we met our mutual great-uncle," Varys told him.

Stark sighed. "You're a hidden member of House Dayne?"

"Not a bad guess. Blackfyre, actually."

That got another magnificent flinch. Really, revealing secrets was so satisfying. The man looked over at Bronn resignedly. "I suppose you're the Emperor of Yi Ti in diguise?"

"He's been chosen by R'hllor," asserted Thoros.

The lord of Winterfell gave the Red Priest a sour look and then turned to walk alongside Lord Reed. Knowing when one had been bested wasn't the worst thing for a prince to know, Varys supposed.

* * *

  
**Olenna XII**

The wheelhouse bumped its way over the bridge across the Mander, the last real obstacle before they reached Highgarden. Despite Robert's improvements to the Roseroad and the expensive metal framework that was intended to absorb the worst of the shaking, Olenna found the journey harder than she had before. One reason she hadn't returned often to Highgarden in the last fifteen years.

Perhaps if I had made the journey more often, I could have stopped Mace from being so foolish. Or at least taught my grandchildren some sense.

"Lady Olenna?" Cassana had ridden a horse for much of the way and Olenna didn't blame her. The beast had to be a more comfortable seat than the padded bench inside the wheelhouse. The gown and other finery appropriate to the arrival at Highgarden made that impractical today however. "I've been trying to think how Uncle Jon would have handled this."

"An unproductive course of action," Olenna replied with a sniff. "No one is likely to mistake you for him."

"I would hope not. But it occurred to me that Lord Tyrell may mourn Ser Loras death."

"I would think so."

"Fogive me for the insenstivity, but the Lord Regent appears to little mourn Uncle Jon."

"Your uncle is not the best example for how my son will respond." Olenna studied the rings on her fingers, particularly the one most securely upon her left hand - that given to her by Luthor when he was courting her. "Stannis was never close to Jon Arryn - I think he saw the man as having stolen Robert away from Storm's End and interposing himself as a father figure to his brother after Steffon Baratheon died. And duty is his god, before the Seven. He would first consider how the Hand's death would affect the Realm and only later - much later - the lives of those around the prince."

Cassana pursed her lips, looking much like her mother for a moment. "The realm is made up of people."

"You cannot please all of the people all of the time." She glanced out the window at the field that flanked the road. "Appealing to Mace as a grieving daughter to a mourning father is not the worst of plans if you feel it best to butter him up."

The girl nodded and looked out of the window. Highgarden was one of the most beautiful keeps in all of Westeros but unlike many there was no city around it. Or rather, there was usually none there. The gathering of fighting men and their ladies had drawn smallfolk to support them and Olenna thought as they reached the first tents and temporary huts that Highgarden had for more more than a year hosted a population to rival Oldtown.

There were craftsmen at work, merchants to sell their workmanship and hundreds of wagons bringing in fresh food to feed them. It was a staggering assemblage of wealth... all being squandered by feeding an army that had no business being there.

The wheelhouse and their escorts passed by an open stretch of land where archery butts were set up. A company of archers was honing their skills and when Olenna looked the other way she saw a second field where the spear-levy marched and turned to the command of horns.

"Father said that these camps were the best of war. Dirty, unhealthy and yet full of youthful pride and the camaraderie of warriors."

"Yes, the stuff of glory. Not the cavalry charge?"

Cassana smiled. "No, he said nothing of those. I don't get the impression he approved much of them."

"He was a clever man."

There were more tents and banners as they closed towards Highgarden. There were also more tents providing various services to knights and squires with more coin to spend. Olenna noted that Cassana didn't look too closely at some tents that were evidently doing a brisk trade in the services of young (and not so young) women but did watch Lord Tarly's son's reactions to them. She wouldn't have thought that Samwell Tarly was the sort to draw the eye of a girl but there was no accounting for taste and he at least seemed to have half of a wit since he paid the tents no mind at all.

The wheelhouse drew up outside the gates of Highgarden proper and the riders of their escort intermingled with men in Tyrell livery. There were some of those in Olenna's company of course, mixed with Dornishmen and Easterners, but they were outnumbered just by Highgarden's guards, much less the army around them.

That didn't matter. This wasn't their battlefield.

Olenna took her stick and smacked the tip against the door. Her servants opened it and Cassana took her arm, helping her down to the men who lifted her out and set her on her feet.

A tiny woman, aged to the point it took a girl of fifteen and two grown men to get her out of a wheelhouse. Weakness, weakness... and in its own way that was strength.

"Olenna," greeted the Seneschal, one of her late husband's brothers. Garth Tyrell. Garth the Gross - she could look at him and see Mace after another few hundred feasts. Then again, Mace at least visited his bannermen. Garth hadn't left Highgarden in years.

"Garth." She wrapped both her hands around her cane. "Where is he?"

"My nephew is in the war room."

Olenna gave him a sceptical look but before she could respond there was a loud exclaimation from the gatehouse.

"What are you doing here, boy!" shouted Randyll Tarly, stalking towards his son. "Were you not with the King in the north?"

"F-father." The squire straightened. "I'm escorting Princess Cassana."

"You ran away you mean. You're a disgrace to the Tarly name."

A shadow fell across Samwell's face. He remained respectful in tone but there was a distinct edge to his voice. "I carried out every order my king gave me. Including bringing his last despatches to his heir. Your instructions from King Robert were to bring the levies of the Reach north?" He gave a pointed look at the camp.

Olenna had to admit she was impressed by the pudgy boy's composure as he delivered that verbal backslap. Lord Tarly seemed less impressed. "You listen to me, boy."

Samwell nodded towards Olenna. "No, you listen to Lady Tyrell. To Prince Martell. And to Princess Baratheon."

The lord of Hornhill looked at his son and then at the two ladies. "The Red Viper?"

"Lord Tarly," Oberyn said silkily from behind him. "Lady Tyrell is here to speak to her son. Perhaps you can accompany us to him."

"Conferring with Gormon again."

"He's left Oldtown?"

"He's been providing advice on our preparations to face the wights."

"I wasn't aware he was an expert."

"He was in the Citadel when they examined the one sent south from Lord Selmy's ranging." Garth glanced at Tarly. "Once we receive the shipments of dragonglass from Essos, we'll be fully equipped to face them in battle."

"Your father said something once to me," Oberyn leant over towards Cassana. "I forget the exact words but the sense of it was that the ideal solution was less important than one that was sufficient."

"The perfect is the enemy of the good enough."

"Yes, that was it."

Garth cleared his throat. "I'm sure you miss your father very much but in matters of war... had he prepared better then he and my great-nephew might well be with us today."

The war-room was at the top of a tower. Cassana bristled at the assertion as they climbed the stairs. Olenna got the impression as she was carried by her servants that any thoughts the girl had of showing sympathy towards Mace had been thrown out of the window. "If the Reach's levies had been in the North as they were ordered to be, my father wouldn't have needed to divide his forces and he would have won the battle."

"I'm sure it's tempting to think that, but matters are not always so clear in war."

"Actually, I find it very clear. My father's letters make it clear that he intended the Reach's levies to fortify the areas east and west of the Wolfswood. Without them, he left twenty thousand men at Long Lake and he was outnumbered at the final battle." Her eyes held all the fury of House Baratheon. "The fault for the death of my father, and Ser Loras, and so many others... is Lord Tyrell's."

"I will not be lectured by a woman on war." Garth paused at the door to the war room. "I hope you are more informed as to the vagaries of warfare, Prince Martell."

The prince made a dismissive gesture. "No one can ever know who would have lived and died in such a battle."

"Indeed." Garth dipped his head and opened the door.

Oberyn entered breezily. "Ah, Lord Tyrell... just the man."

"Oberyn Martell." Mace looked older than Olenna had expected. Willas and Garlan stood by their father's side. The elder was very much his father's son but Garlan reminded Olenna more of Mace's father - in some ways at least. "I had heard you were in my mother's company." The lord of Highgarden stepped forwards and gripped Oberyn's hand before looking past him. "Mother... and this must be Princess Cassana."

Olenna allowed her son to kiss her cheek and Cassana stiffly lifted her skirts as she curtsied.

"I'd heard you were coming, as I said, but no one mentioned why. I suppose Prince Stannis doesn't wish to send ravens this far with so much on his hands." Mace's joviality seemed more forced than usual.

"Ah well, I am appointed Master of Laws you understand."

"Indeed my congratulations."

"I'm here on a point of law, to settle the matter in a public court." Butter would not have melted in the Red Viper's mouth. "With so many of the lords of the Reach here, surely it should not be hard to summon them all to meet in your great hall?"

"Why no, of course not." Mace shook his head. "It's perhaps late in the day but I will send word summoning them all to gather tomorrow. We shall have a feast to welcome you."

"Your hospitality is as high as the honour of House Arryn."

Willas stepped forward, suspicion in his eyes. Perhaps not so much of Mace in him as it appeared. "May I ask what this point of law is?"

"There have been certain... allegations." Oberyn glanced over at Lord Tarly. "Best to deal with them publically. Settle them once and for all."

"What allegations?"

He must surely know. He wasn't so foolish. "Willas," his grandmother told him carefully. "Your father countermanded the orders of the Warden of the South. Some might call that treason."

* * *

  
**Alliser V**

Waymar Royce rode with his kinsmen and for that reason the other Night's Watchmen with the eastern armies were made welcome among the Valesmen. That was a relief to Alliser Thorne whose alternative was to ride among the Easterlanders. There were those who would have remembered him as a Targaryen loyalist - particularly Rosby and Stokeworth men and there were many of those in the tail of Domeric Bolton.

He still saw quite a bit of the young Lord Bolton, because he visited the Redfort men every few days. Bolton had been fostered with Lord Redfort so it was understandable. Alliser found it more manageable to be at one remove from men he'd known before he entered the Night's Watch.

Robb Stark had been well taught or he had good advice - perhaps both. The various contingents of the army were rotated through the positions of vanguard - with the greatest honour - and rearguard where they marched through the mud left by everyone ahead of them. And every day, without fail, riders were sent out in all directions.

If this talent ran in his family, it was no wonder Eddard Stark had won every battle he fought in the rebellion against Aerys.

Today it was the Vale's troops at the head of the army, so Alliser was among the first to see one of the riders rushing back. "What news!" called Waymar.

"There's an army on the far side of the ford!"

Alliser swore. If the enemy had reached the Last River then the Karstark lands were cut off. And if that army pushed the easterners back then the Others could sweep south as far as the Dreadfort on the Weeping River, less than a hundred miles to the south. Beyond that were lowlands... one of the richest and most populated regions of the North.

"The ford is narrow." Bolton's crimson cloak - the men of the North called him Red Knight and with more respect than they usually brought to that title - flared behind him as he turned and the wind caught it. "It'll take them time to cross. If we move quickly we can catch their army divided."

"We should send word to the Young Wolf."

The young man shook his head. "I know Prince Robb's mind on this. Send riders to him so he can bring the rest of the army after us."

Lord Royce had been appointed by Prince Arryn to lead the Valemen. He looked at Alliser. "The Vale will try to hold the ford. The Night's Watch?"

"We're with you."

Under brisk orders from Lord Royce, two dozen riders - squires and pages save for one knight who looked as if he might not be old enough to shave - scattered in all directions to spread the word. The footmen continued to march northwards, unable to hasten their pace without exhausting themselves before the battle to come. Knights and squires paused to don any armour that hadn't been worth wearing on the march and to mount whichever of their destriers seemed best.

The Night's Watch were richer in honour than horses so they kept marching. Alliser moved their column slightly to the right of the main force. As the road - little more than a track - reached the river at an angle this would leave them anchoring the flank and also as the first to receive reinforcements as the rest of the army arrived.

Before the river came into view, the knights were remounted and they cantered past, not wasting their horse's energy at a gallop but pushing the pace to resume the lead. They made for a proud sight.

Then Alliser crested the rise above the river and saw the army that was crossing. They seemed to go on forever. He made a quick estimate that there were ten thousand on this side of the river and at least three times that many on the far side - possibly more as they stretched back up to and over the next ridge of the moors that the river cut through.

There had been a village by the ford. Alliser hoped the smallfolk had had the chance to flee, but a few score more dead would matter little at this time.

Waymer sucked on his teeth. "Oh. The rest of the army had better catch up soon."

"If we don't stop them at the river, it may not matter." Alliser drew his sword. "Men of the Watch, the enemy we've prepared for is before us. We may not have a Wall any more but we have our duty. We march."

He started down the slope and for a moment had a crawling hollow sensation that none of them would follow him. Then he heard their boots and was relieved to know that he wasn't charging alone.

The wights responded aggressively and broke into their own charge up the hill towards the oncoming Valemen and Night's Watch. They had no cavalry however and the knights had spread into a line abreast. When they hit the wights it was like one of the great battles of the past. The front ranks of the enemy were trampled beneath horse hooves, smashed backwards on lance-heads or felled with sword, axe and mace strikes to their heads.

The first ranks... but they slowed the knights and wights were hard to kill. As the mounted charge finally came to a halt, almost half the bodies behind them were rising to their feet once more. Surrounded on all sides, the knights of the Vale faced what might be their doom.

Then Alliser lost his overview of the battle as he closed in on the footmen. His sword hacked the arm off a wight that had been a wilding and he thrust his dagger of obsdian into the corpse's chest. The next man behind them wore the black of the Night's Watch. Alliser hesitated, trying to place the face, trying to be sure that he wasn't fighting a living man.

Since the man in black swung a sword at him, forcing him back a step, the decision was clear. Alliser hammered his former brother in the face with the hilt of his sword, kicked forward with one boot - useless as the wight seemed to feel no pain and he'd missed the knee - and grunted as the sword struck his side. The chainmail beneath his furs held but he'd be feeling that for a few days if he lived so long.

A spear topped with dragonglass thrust past Alliser and brought the wight down. He grunted thanks to the man behind him and they pressed on, through the living horses and over those that were dead to let the knights pull back and regroup.

Slowed by fatigue - everything took more effort in the sapping cold - Alliser had the first line of his men pull back a step and let the second line carry the weight for a few moments. He looked around and saw that thousands more wights were splashing into the ford.

Then from behind came more war cries and banners crossing the ridge. Easterland knights along with the handful from Manderly lands rode down behind the direwolf banner of the Young Wolf. Unlike those of the Vale they didn't throw themselves into the fight as one body. Instead squadrons split off in accordance with some signal from their lords.

"The foot can't be far behind!" called out Alliser. "Press them back."

The black line pressed forward. Stabbing and hacking. Men fell and the line behind gave the dead and the hopelessly wounded swift strikes with their daggers. Dragonglass daggers they at least had in decent numbers.

Bringing down the wights was harder - getting past their defenses to inflict fatal blows was hard and the daggers lacked the reach. Only the limited number of spears worked and it was all too easy to snap a blade off if it got caught.

There was a whistle of arrows overhead and Alliser saw the wights behind the frontline begin to fall. Openings began to form and Alliser led a wedge of men into the nearest, outflanking the wights. Under attack from two sides, the dead began to fall.

"We're doing this!" he called out. Despite the continued flow of the wights into the ford, the army was pushing them back, more and more of them falling to wounds caused by obsidian. The pocket of wights was being ground away and the ground was so littered with corpses that Alliser had to watch his footing.

"Lord Commander, behind us!"

Alliser turned as Waymar grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. It took him a moment to look past the rear ranks, many of whom were already trying to turn around. What he saw set his guts churning.

Wights. Hundreds of them and the number growing as more of them waded up out of the water. "What in the hells? Lord Bolton said the ford is narrow!"

"I don't think they need the ford."

"The bastards don't need to breathe," Alliser realised. "Damn them! Rear ranks, about face. We're outflanked!"

Outflanked and outnumbered. There had only been around five hundred Night Watchmen before the battle and with their momentum broken the wights pushed back and drove a wedge, cutting off the pocket of men along the shore - the Night's Watch and perhaps a hundred Valemen.

Alliser's sword tore through the knee of a wight and as it fell he reversed his stroke and smashed its head. The deadman - wearing Reach colours - pulled a dagger and buried it in his calf. With an oath, he fell to one knee and drove his dagger into the wight's eye. It fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut and Alliser felt like doing the same.

Instead he levered himself up, sparing his wounded leg. Someone had stepped into the gap he left and he looked around. Banners showed him that the rest of the initial force was still fighting despite the right flank being cut off. Knights were moving around the edge, still operating in groups and trying not to get too heavily engaged. Stabbing with lances or making slashing attacks to trample outlying wights.

What there wasn't was any push to break through to his men. Stark either didn't have reserves left to help them or he was sending those reserves somewhere else. He didn't think a Stark would ignore the plight of the Night's Watch but the Young Wolf wasn't his father.

Right now, with the battle breaking down into a hundred knots of men and wights struggling for survival, Alliser wouldn't have said no to Eddard Stark appearing with reinforcements. For that matter, he'd have welcomed Robert Baratheon arriving with or without reinforcements. The man was one hell of a fighter and men followed him.

As if summoned by that thought there was a howling of wolves from the west. Alliser's head turned towards them, the ridge upriver was all he could see above the struggling mass of the two armies fighting over the ford. New banners arose above the line - the banners of the Starks, the Cerwyns, the Marbrands and Westerlings.

And then those banners were joined by rank after rank of pikes. With wolves howling in the distance the pikes began to file slowly down towards the battle.

"Reinforcements!" Alliser called out, seeking to hearten the Night's Watch. "Northern and Westerlander pikes march from the west. Just hold, men! Just hold and we will win this yet!"

His cry was drowned out as a large wight charged into the line. He'd been a northerner by his look and better armoured than most. The man before him fell before a furious swordstroke but two spears stabbed into the man. His arm fell slack but the wight kept coming, body pushed by those behind him - intentionally or not using it as a shield as they pushed into the middle of the Night's Watch.

Men turned aside and rushed to try to close the gap. Alliser did his best to ignore his leg and hobbled to join them but it was too little, too late. With the reserve of men committed to try to deal with this, another man fell, twenty yards from Alliser and there was no one to plug the gap.

He saw it happening, he screamed what he hoped were coherent orders but their lines dissolved into tiny groups, backs pressed against each other and anyone who wasn't stood by an ally was dragged down as the wights cut them down.

Alliser moved to cover Waymar Royce's back as the valeborn Watchman held off two wights with his sword whirling back and forth. He was too late - a third wight hacked at the Royce's shoulder, maybe breaking it and maybe not but it threw his sword arm out of line and one of the other wights slashed the man's throat.

A smashing blow caught Alliser from behind and he fell to his knees, sword flying from his hands. He managed to cling to his dagger and rolled aside before a second strike could finish him. A spear drove into his side, piercing his ringmail below the ribs. Alliser lashed out wildly with his dagger, driving it into an ankle. The wight fell forwards, on top of him, driving the spear deeper.

A boot crashed against Alliser's head, intentional or not he couldn't tell and he saw stars...

He would have sworn later that it was only a moment later that he tried to remove the body pinning him. The wight felt too heavy and he wrestled it around, realising a second body had fallen across it. The noise of the battle was gone and what replaced it was the sound of the aftermath - boys weeping for their mothers, harsh voiced serjeants assessing the wounded, dead men's armour being stripped from them. The air was thick with blood and other foul odors. Hopefully his gut wasn't contributing or he'd be dead soon.

The spear was still in him, broken off about midway along the shaft. Alliser didn't dare remove it but he sawed at the shaft behind the spearhead with his dagger and once he'd carved far enough into it he snapped what was left off. Now all he needed to do was stand.

To stand...

With a grunt he fell on his side, barely avoiding driving the spearhead deeper.

"Careful there." A northern accent, a gauntlet that caught his hand. "I'll pull, you get your feet under you."

Once he was upright he thought for a moment he saw a long face, light eyes and brown hair bound back. Across the youth's back was a long, heavy greatsword but he had an axe at his belt and from the blood on it that was what he'd fought with.

The riverside was heaped with the dead. All around Alliser were the Night's Watch. Black cloaks marked by blood that would darken soon. Men and women moved among them, scraping each corpse with a dragonglass edge before shifting them.

"My thanks," he said at last.

The youth shrugged and released his hand. "Is it always like this... after a battle."

Alliser thought. "Only if you win."

"Gods..." The boy sighed. "Brandon Longstark."

"Ser Alliser Thorne." He grimaced. "I lead the Night's Watch with your cousin's army. Led, perhaps."

"Bran! Brandon!" A horse closed in, picking its way through the bodies with more care than he'd have thought possible. Then again, Robb Stark was the best horseman in the army. Men joked he had Dothraki blood from somewhere although those in the North knew that the young man walked only if he couldn't avoid it. He'd broken his legs as a boy and still limped afoot. Astride a horse he was the equal of any and better than almost all.

Brandon raised his free hand to his cousin. "Robb."

"Ser Addam told me you were here." Robb looked down at him, something chill in his eyes. "You have Ice? Is father..."

Releasing Alliser, the Longstark unbuckled the strap holding the greatsword across his back. "He lives, Robb. Last I saw he was heading to mother and then Winterfell. He had me bring this for you."

Robb Stark accepted the heavy sword and drew it a few inches, baring valyrian steel. "Why? Bran, you're not telling me much."

"I've hardly had the chance." Brandon Longstark shook his head. "Your father's short a hand, Robb. He's half-starved and has frostbite on both feet although the Maesters say they won't need to amputate. He can't use the sword so he sent it to you."

The Young Wolf nodded and then strapped the sword across his back. "Ser Alliser, we're setting up camp behind the ridge. If you don't think you can walk that far, I'll gladly lend you my mount."

"That won't be necessary," Alliser grated. Then: "But I thank you for the offer," he added grudgingly. "I've had worse wounds. I'll see to my men while the Maesters handle the worst wounded."

Robb looked at him and then down at the floor.

"My men," Alliser said again. "The Night's Watch. If you would direct me..."

"Ser Alliser, you're the only man of the Night's Watch I've seen alive so far," Robb told him starkly.

* * *

  
**Cassana VI**

The great hall at Highgarden was magnificent. Cassana had grown up around the vast domed centre of the Crown of Westeros, which had once been home to dragons - but while that was soaring and vast this hall was graceful with intricate archs to support the ceiling and the entire area was painted with scenes of the long history of the Gardener Kings and their Tyrell Stewards who now ruled in their place.

Not least among the decorations were the ladies on the arms of almost every knight and lord in the place. Attired in silks and velvets, the beauties of the Reach were here to mount their own campaigns for the hands of the unwed or to show off their conquests in the form of husbands of substance and reputation. A part of Cassana resented them - House Baratheon sired handsome men but what was admired in a son was not beauty in a daughter. She was too tall, too broad. Not immensely so but enough that she would never be among the great beauties of the land.

Then again, she was daughter and sister of kings. What jewels could compare?

The feast had been extensive, underscoring the immense wealth of the Reach. Despite the season fresh fruits and meats were brought to the tables and manservants brought forth bottles of wine from the Arbor and Dorne for the most lordly, though most knights settled for the Reach's vintages. Cassana only sipped at her own goblet. She wanted a clear head.

"My lords and ladies of the Reach," Oberyn stood at the high table. "I must thank Lord Tyrell for his hospitality, but there is another reason that we have called you all here today. You may be aware that battles are being fought in the North. After thousands of years, the Others have returned. Men of all the Seven Kingdoms fought and died together on the Wall. Our good King Robert turned back an army of the dead at the cost of his own life. Even now the fighting men of Dorne and the Riverlands, the North, East, West and Vale are assembled to stand and fight for life itself against this foe."

He lifted his goblet in toast. "To the valiant men who have marched to war." He waited until others had joined him in raising their goblets and then paused. "But where is the Reach?"

"Loras Tyrell died alongside King Robert, true to his oaths. But where were his brothers?"

"Lord Tarly's son Samwell rode to war and brought back news of the battles..." The prince turned and swept his eyes across the lords of the Reach. "How many of your sons have seen war as he has?"

"Lady Brienne, heiress of Tarth, took up sword and shield... does that not shame the men of the Arbor?"

"Jaime Lannister rode north with twenty men in search of his beloved sister, do the ladies of the Mander lands expect such chivalry of their brothers?"

"Eddard Stark, Beric Dondarrion, Addam Marband... these names will live forever in the songs bards shall one day sing of this winter's war... but what songs will be sung by the bards in Oldtown?"

"Lord Tyrell, the question I have been asked so often, by so many and the question I must as Master of Laws is this: where stands the Reach? Lord Tarly is Warden of the South, he has summoned men in the name of your King yet only a tithe of the Reach's strength march to war. I know well the manhood and valor of the Reach's knights... so I ask of you: why do they camp a thousand leagues from the war they are called to?"

Colour was rising in Mace Tyrell's face but it was Willas Tyrell that spoke first in reply, thumping both fists against the table. "Don't call my father a coward, Dornishman!"

"It is you who said that word, Ser Willas, not I." Oberyn arched his brow. "Though you are not alone, I think."

Cassana looked over at Olenna who seemed to have shrunk in upon herself. The aged woman's personality had always seemed to outweigh her lack of height but now... "Perhaps my son can answer for himself," the Mistress of Whispers said, voice still loud enough to be heard along the table.

The portly lord of Highgarden rose. "That I can. My lords it has been ten years and more since we have marched to war and this is a war unlike any other. Many of us have sons and brothers who were of no age to fight in Robert's Rebellion or against the Greyjoys. There are those who would say that much of our army are summer knights."

There was a rumble of discontent and he held up his hands. "Aye, some would say it as an insult, but for what else do we fight? This is a war against winter itself. A war where most of our levies had been told by their septons that they would face nothing but wildlings in another guise and that any talk of the Others was heresy. It is an unparalleled challenge and one I know - I know! - that we can and must rise to."

"Those of you who have seen war must have seen how it can consume those inexperienced and ill-prepared. King Robert's army, in its first clash with the wights lost a quarter of their men." He paused and then looked at Cassana. "Had it not been for his great personal sacrifice in leading the rearguard, it could have been far more."

Mace pointed to the hall's doors. "A year ago this army contained thousands of inexperienced and ill-equipped men. Today they're trained and hardened, equipped with arms, armour and winter clothes. The septons here have corrected the errors preached by those who deny the true nature of the threat and shortly we will have all the dragonglass needed. With that we can march north not merely to hold back the Others but also to defeat them once and for all."

Cassana considered Mace's words and how he said them. For all her anger at him, she didn't see any signs of insincerity. Perhaps there was no malice involved. His arguments seemed convincing to the lords and knights at the lower tables... and while they had received bread and salt from Lord Tyrell, they were also badly outnumbered in any quarrel. Confining her 'for her safety' might be argued to be no breach of the laws of hospitality.

"Your highness." Oberyn Martell bowed slightly towards Cassana. "I had the privilege of seeing your father at work against the Greyjoys and he had a rare talent for war. Did he have any wisdom that would apply to Lord Tyrell's words."

"Does Dorne take counsel in war from some slip of a girl?" jeered Garth.

Maester Gormon, another of Mace Tyrell's uncles, gripped his brother's shoulder in warning. "Prince Oberyn's mother was a sagacious ruler, brother." He looked over to Cassana. "Your father is mourned all across Westeros, your highness and I know you travelled to the North with him, years ago. If you know his mind on this, I would heed your words."

Cassana thought a moment. "My father told me that while I might never command warriors myself, it might fall to me one day as a wife and as a mother to choose those who would lead bannermen on behalf of my eventual husband and sons. For this reason he did not shield me from councils of war."

She rose to her feet and stepped towards Mace Tyrell. "King Robert looked for two qualities in the men he entrusted with command. He did not look for courage, for the manhood of Westeros he had no doubt of. The first quality he looked for was of attention to the men being led. He desired that his warriors be led by men who would concern themselves with the preparation and wellbeing of their warriors. Only by respecting and understanding their force can a commander bring forth from them their best." She smiled at Mace Tyrell, knowing that it did not reach her eyes. "I have no doubt from your words, Lord Tyrell, that you have this quality in full measure."

Mace half-bowed but she raised her hand.

"The second quality my father called for was of resolve. A commander must not only love his army... he must have the will to destroy the thing he loves. For in battle many of those men that have been fed, trained and prepared will die. No one can change that thing and only by bringing violence with deliberate, calculated and decisive force can victory be had. The price of that must be paid unflinchingly and it is here where you have failed your King and the Reach."

"It may be, Lord Tyrell, that your army is superbly prepared to win battles but if it never reaches that battle for your cosseting then it is no army but merely a festival."

Tyrell sat down so sharply that it felt to Cassana almost as if she'd slapped him. Olenna closed her eyes but nodded quietly. Both Willas and Garth opened their mouths only to be restrained firmly by their respective brothers. "What would you have of us here," Garlan Tyrell said quietly, meeting Cassana's eyes over Willas' shoulder.

"Prince Oberyn, as Master of Laws, shall pass judgement."

Oberyn leant insouciantly upon the table. "Lord Tarly," he said - not even looking at Lord Tyrell as he pulled a fistful of parchments from his belt. "I have here the pledges of a score of lords and knights that are now in the North. They have confided to me their confidence in you as Warden of the South and would have you as their Lord. I ask you now, will you place your hands between those of Cassana Baratheon, who speaks for our king, her brother, and pledge before this hall your fealty as Lord Paramount of the Dornish Marches."

Lords began to look around the hall, calculating who was absent in the North. While the Marches were in theory as far east as Summerhall in the Stormlands, the lands of the Reach that they encompassed stretched far east and west of the Tarly stronghold at Hornhill - which itself lay only a little more than thirty leagues south of Highgarden.

Randyll Tarly stood. "Prince Martell, I am."

Space was made for him, the Tyrells shrinking back together as the Warden dropped to one knee before Cassana. She took his callused hand between her smaller ones. "Randyll Tarly, lord of Horn Hill and Warden of the South, do you on behalf of the lords and knights of the Dornish Marches, renounce all fealty and allegiance to the House of Tyrell."

"By the Seven, I do."

Mace had been reaching for the wine. At those words his fingers fumbled and the goblet went spinning to the floor. Cassana ignored him. "Do you swear to uphold the laws of the realm, to govern wisely and justly, to come as you are called and go as you are sent, to be steadfast and loyal to King Eddard Baratheon, First of his Name and to his House, His Heirs and his officials."

"By the Seven, I swear most solemnly that I shall do this."

"Then on the behalf and at the behest of my most gracious brother, I bestow upon you the duties, honours and responsibilities of Lord Paramount of the Dornish Marches, Defender of the Marches and Marshal of the Reach."

"My lady, in the name of King Eddard I accept these duties, honours and responsibilities. May the Father judge me and the Stranger take me if I fail."

Cassana closed her hands upon his fingers and then released them. "So it is, so shall it be." She waved him back to his feet.

The new domain carved from the Reach was small and it was not the richest lands, mostly abutting the Red Mountains. But it was a dagger drawn upon the Tyrell lands around Highgarden.

"Lord Florent."

A deadly silence fell as the Reachmen realised that Oberyn wasn't done. Alerie Tyrell fainted in her seat and Willas and Garlan rose to lift their mother and carry her aside, directing poisonous glares at the Master of Laws.

The grey-haired Alester Florent walked along the table, pausing to nod to Samwell Tarly. Cassana remembered that her father's squire was son of Lord Florent's elder daughter. "Princess Cassana. Prince Oberyn."

"Lord Alester, your king through the person of his sister calls on you to renounce House Tyrell and pledge yourself to the crown as our loyal Lord Paramount of the Mandermouth."

Florent didn't waste a second glance upon Mace Tyrell as he placed his hands between Cassana and swore his oaths. Unlike Randyll Tarly, who had received the allegiance of his neighbours by proxy, Florent stood beside Prince Oberyn as lords and knights were called forwards to renounce their previous lord and bend the knee to House Florent. Some were more eager than others, Lord Alester's friends and allies of old. The worst of rivalries were avoided however and the Mandermouth's boundaries - stretching south to encompass the headwaters of the River Honeywine and north along the Ocean Road - for the most part made up of their new lord's partisans.

It was also a domain that met with the Dornish March, cutting off the exceptionally rich south-western corner of the Reach. Lord Leyton Hightower's wife (his fourth) was Lord Florent's daughter but he was also the father of Alerie Tyrell by one of his earlier brides. Perhaps fortunately he wasn't in the position of having to make a choice: no one had seen him outside of the mighty tower from which his House took its name since the Great Council years before.

Instead it was his handsome heir, Ser Baelor, who was called forwards. He favoured Cassana with a bright smile as he joined them on the dais. Taking her hand he bowed and kissed it gallantly. Cassana refrained from flushing - he was married and she thought that his wife was among those at the tables.

"Princess, I ask clemency for my goodbrother," Baelor said solemnly. "Mace is no traitor to your house."

She nodded. "There is a traditional remedy for one who has tarnished his honour with failure. If Lord Tyrell accepts the responsibility then House Tyrell will not be deprived of the Highgarden."

"If I may counsel him..."

Cassana gestured for him to continue and looked out along the tables. "Lord Rowan, if you would."

Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove and goodfather of Baelor, was a stout and cleanshaven lord. He had a reputation for good sense and he saw which side the tide was turning. Lords and knights of the northern Reach followed him forward and Cassana felt something unclench inside her. This was going to work.

"Your highness." Rowan dropped to one knee before her. "How may I serve the king?"

"As the Lord Paramount of the Northmarch." She paused and considered that he was popular enough that lords chose to join him of their own will. "And to lead your bannermen northwards. Reinforcements for the North are gathering at Darry in the Riverlands. It will be a long march for your men, though I hope my company will enliven the road."

He caught the meaning immediately. "It would be my great delight to escort a Princess of House Baratheon."

His own oaths and Baelor's were deferred however as Mace Tyrell announced his decision to take the black. His heir, Lord Willas, succeeded to the rule of Highgarden and of plains long the Mander as far west as the Fossoway's lands bordering on Stannis Baratheon's demesnes. It was a bare tithe compared to the entire kingdom that had been his birthright in the morning.

We've divided the Reach, she thought. And in consequence, Eddard still rules them. But the Tyrells remain a problem. It's definitely wise to leave with the armies and not trust in their hospitality longer than we must.


	37. Chapter 37

**Stannis XIX**

He read the letter from the Reach and then folded it away. So Mace was a fool and a failure but not a traitor. Treason and he would have had the man executed no matter what but a failure could be left to rot with what was left of the Night's Watch.

A dead Mace would have forced him to pick a new Master of Whispers. Bella Bolton had been groomed for Olenna's seat but she was still too young - and Olenna's student which would have been dangerous.

Stannis could still see Olenna sat across from him in private, the old woman near to begging. He felt grateful in a way that she had not. He wouldn't have bent to it and to have humbled herself for nothing... the Queen of Thorns would be a dangerous foe. More dangerous in her way than all the armies of the Reach.

Cassana had done well, as had Oberyn. The Tyrells were a more manageable problem, one that could be put aside for a while. Olenna could not say that her son and her grandchildren had not been spared as much as possible under the circumstances. Whether that would satiate her...

Stannis shrugged to himself. Who could know another man's mind, much less a woman's? Aemma and Alysanne would be watching her. Hopefully that would be enough.

The heavy wagons clattered along the Kingsroad behind the mounted nobles. After months in King's Landing, barely even leaving the Crown of Westeros, Stannis felt relieved to be out on a long ride, even if it meant riding into the cold north wind. The aches and strains of the first few days had showed that he'd softened up and he'd pushed the pace as a result.

If the Regent was weak then the King would be weak. If the King was weak the kingdoms would follow.

Eddard rode a discreet distance behind, surrounded by squires and pages his own age. They talked of the usual things boys their age did - horses, hunting, arms practise. When they thought their elders couldn't hear them they talked of maids too. Given how much Eddard reminded Stannis of Robert at the same age he wouldn't be surprised if someday the boy's guards had to report a maid in the boy's bed.

The resemblence to Robert was a reassurance at times. Stannis' elder brother had paid far more attention to the lessons of Maester Cressen than it had appeared at the time. Hopefully it would be the same with Eddard because he surely hid any signs of such astutely. Not that he was stupid, but...

Stannis sighed.

"Is something wrong?" Daenerys didn't ride with the boys. A girl her age needed additional security and it seemed simplest to Stannis to keep her guards and his together so she rode near to him more often than not. Her long silver hair flowed unbound behind her and occasionally drew the attention of Eddard's companions.

Keep dreaming boys, Stannis thought gruffly. But lay one finger on her and you'll answer to me. And not just for the obvious reasons. "The business of the kingdom," he said simply. "The Night's Watch took heavy casualties fighting at the Bloody Ford." Which wasn't actually related to her question but there was no need for her to know that. "Rodrik Harlaw's men are still holding at Westwatch and there are those at Long Lake but Robb Stark has so few that you could count them on the fingers of one hand."

"I thought that the Night's Watch were independent of the crown?"

"They no longer have the Gift to supply themselves from," he explained. "Now they depend on donations from the lords that they fight alongside. Harlaw suggests spreading songs glorifying their stand at the ford but he doesn't seem to have sought permission from Lord Commander Thorne so the two of them have fallen out again."

"Does that happen often?"

"Thorne is proud and stubborn. Harlaw is cleverer but not so clever as he thinks." Stannis ground his teeth. "And they both want me to take their side."

Daenerys nodded. "Prince Stannis... is my brother in trouble for returning from Essos?"

"What? No. He wasn't banished."

She relaxed in her saddle slightly. "Thank you. I was concerned, you seemed angry when you read the letter from Lord Edmure."

Had he? "He appears to keep poor company. One of the Blackfyres is with him."

"I thought Lord Barristan had killed the last of them, long ago."

Stannis shook his head. "Through their male line only. And he seems not to be a man to be trusted. You would not remember Varys."

The girl thought. "Do you mean the broadsheet printer in Pentos?"

"He was your father's Master of Whispers and my brother banished him."

"Oh? Oh!" Daenerys covered her mouth. "He's a Blackfyre pretender? Should you not..." She paused. "Uncle, the realm cannot afford a civil war. I believe that Aenys Blackfyre was... dealt with at the Great Council of 233. If the Blackfyre has been banished once..."

"The thought has crossed my mind," Stannis told her sourly. Brynden Rivers had been the man who offered Aenys safe conduct and then had him beheaded on arrival. Aegon Targaryen had given his great-uncle the choice between death and the black for that murder. "But Prince Stark has extended safe conduct to him and I am no Bloodraven."

* * *

  
**Viserys XVI**

Darry was awash with children. It had begun with Northern lords sending their younger children to foster with kinsmen and allies, ensuring their houses would have an heir safe beneath the Neck. Several lords had even paid for the families of their armsmen and sworn swords to be sent south.

What many forgot was that the smallfolk could be as shrewd as any Maester and there had been a flood of smallholders taking shelter for the winter. Ships departed northern ports heavily loaded and scarcely a day went by riding south on the kingsroad that their party hadn't passed several families making the best pace they could, from one village to the next. And as those refugees bought, borrowed or outright stole food from the villages on the road, more smallfolk felt they had no choice but to follow suit.

As a port town positioned near the Kingsroad, Darry wasn't an uncommon destination. Viserys had been glad of the excuse to visit the castle's tombs and claim at least a few hours of peace.

"Viserys?"

He looked up as Bronn entered the catacombs, a torch blazing in one hand. "Bronn."

"Woman with a child to see you. Well, I say child. Old enough that if you were a bit indiscreet before you crossed the Narrow Sea..."

"I don't have any bastards." Viserys dusted off his knees as he rose. "I'm careful about that."

"She's a handsome woman. I wouldn't have blamed you." The sellsword looked at the niche. "Who are you praying for?"

"Ser Willem Darry. He was Master at Arms for my family before... when I was a child." Viserys rubbed his face. "He was killed trying to escape to Essos with Daenerys and I when the Baratheons came to Dragonstone."

"Well... you got there in the end, right?"

"He was loyal and deserved better. But that's not uncommon."

The woman was Ashara Dayne - Ashara Selmy now and for many years now but Viserys remembered her best from the Red Court under his father - she'd been one of Elia's ladies-in-waiting. The boy with her was nearly a man's age and something about how he held himself reminded the Targaryen of Arthur Dayne. He had the light hair that cropped up every now and then in House Dayne, but the height and the eyes were more his father's. Viserys thought Barristan Selmy had a son who might do credit to the legends of both father and uncle. "Lady Selmy. Lord Selmy."

"Ser Viserys." Ashara met his eyes with no more than a glimpse to the sword that caught her son's attention.

Viserys bowed. "I heard of your husbands death and I regret it. He was a fine man and it was my honour to be knighted by him."

"Father knighted you?" asked the boy, attention drawn away from the greatsword.

"Aye. At Lannisport, after the Greyjoys fell." Viserys lifted the sword and took the hilt. "If I may...?"

Ashara nodded and took a half-step back, giving him room. He slid the scabbard away, revealing the blade of white metal. It was said that Dawn was forged with steel from a falling star. "My brother's sword," she said quietly.

"Another loyal man who deserved better." Viserys returned ths sword to his scabbard and offered it to her. "I heard you will be sending your son to Starfall. Perhaps he can return it to Lord Dayne."

"I'm not going south. I'm old enough to fight!"

"No one is old enough for war. It's something we have to do anyway."

The boy - Viserys wasn't sure what his name was - shook his head. "You were my age when King Robert made you his squire. I could be your squire."

"Not unless your mother gives her consent." Viserys raised his free hand. "That's not me trying to turn you away, Lord Selmy. You're not of age. Until you are, she has the final say."

Ashara looked at Dawn. "If you were to take Dawn to my brother at Starfall - taking Duncan with you as your squire - then months more to come north again."

"Mother!"

"You're your father's son. I can't hope to keep you from battle forever."

"I'm sorry. I don't know that I'll be free to go to Starfall. Until I've spoken to the Lord Regent, to my sister... to King Eddard as well... I don't know where I'll be going."

"The roads will be crowded while the court is here," Ashara told him. "Until then we'll remain guests here. If you are turning south, please send me word."

"I'll do that."

He joined Bronn at the exit to the tombs and the two made their way back towards their lodgings. Fortunately the Targaryen name was still enough to command some respect and he'd secured two rooms at an inn. Most knights around Darry were staying in tents and other temporary shelters.

Varys was waiting outside. "Did you hear the news," he asked as soon as he saw them.

"The King has arrived then?"

"The King, yes." The eunuch had shaved his head bare again. "However..."

There was a huge crowd to either side of the Kingsroad to the south. Viserys scrambled up a stairway and then hauled himself onto the roof of a shop overlooking the route. The owner might have protested but he wasn't in evidence - possibly he was out in the crowd.

The other three joined him on the roof, treading carefully to avoid breaking beams that creaked beneath the tiles. "I can't believe it."

"Do you have no faith in your sister?" asked Thoros mildly. "With what you told us about the Bloodraven..."

"It's more that the Baratheons allowed this in the first place."

Down below them, the young King rode beside his uncle into Darry. Behind, caged up in wagons that had clearly been built for the purpose, were dragons.

One was black with red scales on the underside of its long neck. The second had more of a violet hue that Viserys found impossible not to associate with the colour of his own eyes. Finally, the third was slate-grey with crimson spines along its back.

The appearance of the dragons sent ripples through the crowd. The more cautious wished to back away - the more reckless wished to move closer. Fortunately for the latter's safety, the escort of King's Men were supported by a cordon of City Watchmen from King's Landing who were well used to keeping crowds under control.

Moving from wagon to wagon, a girl with silver hair was doing what she could to keep the pony-sized dragons calm despite the noise of the crowd. "Your sister?" asked Bronn, nodding to her.

"When I left she was a little girl."

"Girls grow up," Bronn pointed out. "I don't recall you minding that time in Lys..."

"It's different when it's my sister."

"Well get yourself a big stick. Because unless I'm seeing things, there are a lot of men out there who've noticed she's grown up now. And she isn't under Robert Baratheon's protection any more."

* * *

  
**Obara VIII**

The docks at Darry weren't especially impressive and they rocked beneath Obara's feet. She took it as a reminder of the unsteady ground she trod politically.

Eddard wasn't in evidence but Stannis stood on the shore, Lord Darry at his side flanked by a servant with bread and salt. Viserys, more grizzled than she had expected and wearing a close-cropped beard, stood with them. Interesting and perhaps a promising factor.

"Obara," Stannis said in greetings.

She curtsied, although her dress wasn't really made for that. "Are we on first terms still, my lord regent?"

"At least for now." He glared past her at the ships anchored outside Darry's harbour. The broad estuary of the Trident was safe enough for them... but they were obviously packed with armed men. "You travel in interesting company."

"The best I could do," she confessed to him. "It won't surprise you to learn that talk was made of seizing King's Landing and making an alliance with the Tyrells."

"A poor plan."

"But one that could have been troublesome." Obara turned to the other men. "Lord Darry, Ser Viserys."

Viserys bowed in a courtly fashion and kissed her hand. Lord Darry seemed more hesitant. "You may as well offer bread and salt now," the former advised the latter. "I can't see the Lord Regent turning away his brother's widow."

Darry looked plaintively to Stannis who ignored him. "Speak plainly to me, Obara. What is your purpose here?"

"Without my uncle's consent certain Targaryen loyalists contacted the Golden Company. Since one is my sister, the prince asked me to try to deter them."

"It's said that the Golden Company have ten thousand men. We have more here, at least for now. Unless their captain is a fool, he hasn't come to spark another Blackfyre rebellion."

"Aside from all else, they lack a Blackfyre."

Stannis made a coughing sound and Obara thought it might be as close to a laugh as she'd heard from him. "They can have ours."

Viserys shrugged. "You aren't the only one who arrived with unwelcome company," he informed Obara, somewhat cryptically. "A Targaryen restoration... and no one invited me? Do they have plans for my sweet sister?"

"Ah... in a sense. Your nephew Prince Aegon is at the head of the company and... Well, you know Targaryen marriage traditions."

Viserys rubbed the side of his face. "Is that the idea?"

"Westeros has a king already."

Obara turned back to Stannis. "If he chooses to press his claim then Dorne will not support him. At the moment all he has told me he will ask is the same opportunity you intend to offer to any man here: the chance to ride a dragon."

Stannis stiffened. "How could he know that? In Essos, thousands of miles away? We didn't announce it until after we left King's Landing."

"I told them. My uncle told me. Who told him..." Obara spread her hands. "Olenna Tyrell isn't the only one who listens to whispers."

"You told him?" Stannis reached out without looking, taking bread from the servant, grinding it in the salt and then handed the salted bread to Obara. "Eat this before I'm tempted beyond reason."

Obara bit into the loaf, choking down a mouthful. "It convinced Aegon that war was not the answer."

"He has an army with him, that does not speak of peace."

"How could your uncle tell you this?" Viserys tugged on his beard. "The timing doesn't work, not for you to cross the Narrow Sea in the time it took Daenerys to come here from. Even a raven would take time."

"Would a Bloodraven?" Obara saw that hit home. "There are ways of sending messages that are faster than ravens. My uncle has tools that I do not. Aegon is ambitious - but he's not a fool. Right now, none of us can afford a civil war and if his Targaryen blood means he can ride a dragon..."

"Then he's a threat to my nephew," said Stannis flatly.

"Are you sure he is a Targaryen?" asked Viserys quietly. "I thought Rhaegar's children died with their mother. If he's an imposter, just approaching the dragons could be courting death."

"The only man who knows for sure is Varys. Aegon claims that he was smuggled out as a baby, replaced by another child to prevent his grandfather from learning that one of his heirs was outside of his control. And could you believe anything the Spider says?"

Viserys snorted, yielding the point. "Daenerys will ride a dragon, one of three. If the third is someone loyal to Eddard, he'll be secure whatever Aegon manages."

"And if the third is you? Three Targaryens, three dragons..."

"It won't be." Obara saw Viserys look aside. "I've learned bitter truths, among them that dragons are my sister's destiny, but not mine."

Stannis' jaw jutted out. "You've never met this boy and you'd trust him with a dragon?"

"The chance to try - although in this case I'd offer a bargain. He brought ten thousand fighting men here after all. They can fight for Eddard as well as they can for Aegon. The gods know, there will be lordless lands when this war is done. Any who survive will have earned a reward," Viserys replied cynically.

* * *

  
**Cassana VII**

While Cassana was pleased to see Viserys had survived his trip to the North, she was shocked at the sight of Eddard Stark. The Prince of the North was haggard and when he walked without other's assistance he needed a stick in his one remaining hand to lean upon. He was a far cry from the powerful figure she remembered from his time as Hand of the King.

"I cannot serve as Eddard's Hand, Stannis." The Stark shook his head. "There are things I need to do."

"The realm needs strong leadership."

"I'm not the man who can give them that." The one-handed prince rubbed his face. "I'm... In all but name, Robb rules the North now. I need to go to the Isle of Faces. There are strange things happening in the North."

"Really?" There was an immense weight to Stannis' words.

Stark shook his head. "More than that. I saw Sansa... I think there may be answers on the Isle. This is important, my lord regent. Perhaps as important as the dragons."

"Very well. If you cannot support the Crown I have no reason to bar you from your... travels." Stannis turned and walked away stiffly.

Cassana looked after him for a moment and then at Stark. "You supported my father without question." She wasn't sure if she meant the implicit accusation.

"I believe your father would have supported me in this." He set his jaw. "Armies can fight the wights but we haven't even seen one of the Others yet and we've no real idea what they want or how far they'll go in pursuit of it."

"You think you can find answers on the Isle of Faces?"

"Maybe." The man glanced over to where a crowd was gathering around the enclosure where Daenerys and the dragons were housed. "It sounds as if Aegon has arrived. My sons wouldn't forgive me for missing this."

Cassana nodded and the two walked towards the enclosure, Ser Mandon Moore following Cassana. "Do you think he's really a Targaryen?"

"It's as Obara said. Only Varys knows for sure, and no one will believe an answer he gives. Although tens of thousands read his broadsheet and appeared to accept everything written there."

She nodded. "He believes it, though. And if he does manage to bond with one of the dragons then most of Westeros will accept it as true. Targaryens and dragons are seen as inseperable here. It isn't like Essos where they remember there were many Valyrian Houses."

"It doesn't really affect your brother's legitimacy. Robert's claim was vested on disinheriting all of Aerys' line, including his grandson."

"Some would say that dragons count for more than laws."

"That was the argument of Aegon the First. Do you think it's an arguement your father would accept?"

She shook her head. "No. But he didn't always have things go his way."

With one of the Royal Guard as a mute warning, the crowd didn't offer any obstacle to Cassana and the northern prince. Rather than take to the seats where Stannis and his officers sat to watch as men assayed the dragons, Cassana went to where Viserys was leant over a wooden fence that had been marked out as a safe area. Heralds had announced repeatedly that the dragons were restrained sufficiently far behind the fence that their flames shouldn't threaten anyone on the far side of it. Since Stannis had also bluntly announced that neither he nor Lord Darry would accept any culpability for the deaths of someone straying past it, the barrier was somewhat respected.

"Prince Stark." The silver-haired knight turned, having seen the man first out of the corner of his eye and then bowed more deeply. "And Cassana. It's been many years."

"Since you left like a thief in the night."

"Hardly a thief. And it was at the crack of dawn. I'd have done myself an injury going down the stairs of the Crown at night."

Cassana smirked. "You left with a pocket full of gold and without telling anyone. I'm not saying you're a thief but you surely acted like one."

"Details, details." He gestured towards the dragons. "Are you here to admire them or to make wagers on my supposed-nephew's luck?"

Two of the dragons were asleep, only the violet-hued one on its feet and eyeing the crowd speculatively. Cassana hadn't seen them in months and they'd grown significantly. It wouldn't be too much longer, she guessed, before they could carry riders. Chains bound them to the ground and to heavy weights. Only the black - Banthis, Daenerys had named him - was in any sense biddable and that only to Daenerys. He was the first hatched although Cassana wasn't sure if that made a difference.

"You don't believe he's really your nephew?"

"I haven't really had a chance to speak to him. I do think he believes it." The Targaryen grimaced. "If he manages to become a dragonrider I suppose I'll have no choice but to accept him."

There was a small outcry as another party reached the edge of the fence and the youth in question vaulted smoothly over it. A balding man in armour joined him a moment later and was followed by Prince Oberyn's daughter Nymeria, only slightly hampered by her skirts.

"I suppose we're about to find out," Cassana mumured.

"Lord Regent." Aegon directed a shallow bow towards Stannis. "I trust you've no second thoughts on our agreement."

"With the stipulation that I don't accept any claims on lands lost in banishment, I've agreed to end the exile of the Golden Company," Stannis declared sourly. "And in the name of King Eddard I confirm that you may stand first among those who would ride dragons in the defense of Westeros. Have you second thoughts, Strickland?"

The armoured man bowed more deeply than Aegon had. "Whatever the outcome today, we will march north in defense of our ancient homeland," he pledged.

"The dragons are before you." Stannis seated himself and gestured towards them. "Make your attempt."

Aegon walked forward and Cassana had to force herself to breathe. If he succeeded then he would be a dangerous threat to House Baratheon. Daenerys might remain loyal to them - Cassana hoped that she would - but an ambitious royal rival with a dragon at their command was a nightmare that had consumed Westeros in war once before. Then again, the Blackfyre Rebellions showed that dragons weren't a requirement for that.

Speaking of which, the sword at Aegon's side drew her attention. A crosspiece in the form of dragon's heads, grip bound in black leather and a ruby set in the hilt... longer than most knight's swords by more than a handspan.

"Blackfyre," Viserys said with certainty, having seen the same thing. "The Golden Company recovered it after the death of each pretender to wield it."

"Did they ever offer it to you?"

"I never encountered them when I was in Essos." His lips curled. "And I doubt I would have impressed them. I must wonder why they are so ready to support Aegon."

"Connington must have spent years persuading them."

"Perhaps. How does Mya feel about that?"

"I haven't heard from her. She's staying in Griffin's Roost as far as I know."

Aegon circled the dragons, eyeing each in turn. Banthis snorted at him and the youth made a gesture, a salute of some kind Cassana thought, and moved past the black dragon.

Cassana saw her brother lean forwards from where he sat next to Stannis, watching as Aegon considered the grey and then stepped closer to the violet dragon, who was beginning to stir. Obara, wearing Baratheon colours as she sat in the royal box, was paler than usual as she watched the dragon wake. Qelos, he was called. The slightest of the three but not by much. He had a lean and dangerous look.

Aegon stepped closer and Qelos turned his neck to look at the boy. Rather than freezing at the gaze, he kept advancing, meeting those slit eyes evenly.

"He has no fear." Viserys' voice was very low.

Slowly but implacably, Aegon closed in until he was close enough to reach out and touch the dragon's face. Very carefully he ran his bare finger-tips across the scales.

Qelos flinched back and Aegon paused, met it's gaze again and then reached out again, stroking the dragon's head, avoiding the jaws, the eyes and the nose. Probably touching those sensitive areas would be taken as a threat.

"Is it working?" Viserys' eyes were narrowed to slits. "Is he going to bond with it?"

"I'm not sure. Daenerys has been mothering them since they were born."

Aegon cupped his hands behind Qelos' head. "You are -"

The dragon's jaws snapped open and then closed again.

"No," Cassana said numbly as a streamer of fire erupted from between teeth locked on either side of Aegon's skull. The youth had no time to scream but many in the crowd did so for him. "No, I don't think that's..." She choked.

Awakened by the sounds, Banthis and the grey-scaled Orbar began to join Qelos in tearing at the burning body, unconcerned by the flames.

"Pull them off!" ordered Stannis, rising to his feet. He strode forwards as Daenerys and her helpers began pulling on the chains. Platters of meat were pushed forwards to offer the three more tempting viands, conveniently in the direction that the chains were drawing them.

The worst of the screams died down although Cassana saw that Nymeria had slumped back against the fence, staring wide-eyed at what was left of the boy she'd sworn herself to.

Stannis walked closer as the dragons were pulled back. She saw that he was watching them carefully to see that he was staying outside the reach of their flames. When he reached Aegon's body, he seized the body by the one shoulder not on fire and started pulling it back out of the way. The long scabbard tangled in Aegon's legs and twisted the body almost out of the regent's grip.

With a grunt, Stannis turned and drew Blackfyre out of the scabbard, removing it as an obstacle. He reached the fence again and eager hands took Aegon's body. Cassana was just close enough to see Stannis blink as he realised the screams of horror were being replaced with cries of admiration for his actions.

"Robert himself couldn't have done better," Eddard Stark murmured as Cassana saw her brother accepting Blackfyre from their uncle's hands.


	38. Chapter 38

**Varys XVII**

Thoros had found a co-religionist among the Golden Company and a keg of cider from the Reach. Varys had to admire his resourcefulness. For his part, Varys thought that she was a woman best kept under observation. It wasn't hard to do since many of the other men similarly wanted to look at her.

"You lied to me," Jon Connington accused bitterly.

"I did not lie." Melisandre's voice was harsh with her own pain. "I was wrong. Tragically wrong."

"You and the Spider both." The exiled Stormlander wasn't swaying but there was a certain lack of focus around his eyes that suggested he'd drunk a good quantity of fortified wine before he found their little group. "Was he even Rhaegar's son, did you lie to me the whole time?"

Varys sighed. "Was he the same boy I placed in your care?"

"Of course he was!"

"Then yes. He was Rhaegar's son. Elia's too, which may have been his undoing."

"You're lying. You're always lying..."

"Then why do you even bother to ask?"

Connington fumbled at his belt, hand not quite settling upon the hilt of his dagger. Before he could find it, Thoros rose and took his arm. "It's hard to lose a son," he said sympathetically. "And it's clear you loved him as a son. When a man's son dies, he should mourn. Not quarrel."

"I... yes." The red-haired lord let himself be turned away. "What will I do?"

"Have you buried him?"

"Gods, how can I bury him? I failed him. I failed him."

Melisandre watched them walk away. "We all failed him. For a Targaryen to die to a dragon..."

Varys raised his cup in toast. "To Aegon Targaryen, who died like Aegon, son of Aenys, to a dragon."

Her eyes met his. "You expected this?"

"I had concerns. On the matter of dragons I consulted with a sorcerer well-versed in the matter. He felt that the Valyrian blood flowed strongest through the maternal lines. Elia Martell had some Valyrian blood through her mother but not as an unbroken female lineage. The chances were no more than even that a dragon would accept him."

"Interesting." She drew her finger around the rim of her cup. "Who did you consult? I know of no one who has such expertise."

"His name was Brynden Rivers."

"The man they called Bloodraven. One of my teachers spoke of him. They thought him dead, long ago."

He looked away delicately. "Not so very long."

"Thoros tells me that your companion Bronn was restored to life by R'hllor. He has been called. I erred with Aegon, but not in coming to Westeros."

"No?"

She shook her head. "You do not believe, even though you saw it. What do you know of Azor Ahai."

"I know the legend. A man who forged a sword to fight your Great Other. Twice it failed, until he quenched it in the blood of his own wife."

"That sword was called Lightbringer and so the Long Night ended with a new dawn." Melisandre spread her hands. "Another long night has begun and Azor Ahai has returned."

"And died." Varys hid a smirk. "I suppose we will have to manage, somehow."

"He was not Azor Ahai. I was wrong."

"So you'll look for him."

"I have found him."

"Bronn?"

"No." Melisandre eyes were like dark pools. "He has his part to play, although I can only guess at who it is. But today I saw a prince draw a sword from fire."

"You think Stannis Baratheon is your... Azor Ahai?"

"Do you doubt it?"

Varys sipped from his cup. The cider was very fine. "I would deeply appreciate being there when you tell him that."

* * *

  
**Cassana VIII**

The previous day's disaster had deterred some of the men who'd been eager to win glory as a rider of the first dragons seen in centuries. The smarter ones probably.

"I'm sure that one of them would bond with you," Daenerys told her brother as they watched those who still felt it was worth the risk. "You're my brother, after all."

"It doesn't necessarily follow, Daenerys." Cassana saw Viserys rest one hand on his sister's shoulder fondly. She wondered if he wished to follow the Targaryen example in brides. Her father wouldn't have approved and she thought Stannis would object too. "I've learned that the..." He paused in thought. "Hmm. It's complicated."

"Daenerys and I worked out how to hatch dragons after no one managed for centuries. I think we can manage."

He looked at her and smirked. "I'm trying to think how to explain it, not doubting your ability to grasp it. You see, it seems the key is the mother's bloodline. You have read your father's book?"

She felt her cheeks heat. "If we stipulate that no one tells mother that I have?"

"I'm absolutely sure that Queen Alysanne helped him write it."

"T-t-that's beside the point."

"Fine, fine." He lowered his voice slightly. "Do you recall the theory of the seeds?"

"The two small seeds of the mother and the one larger and one smaller seed from the father?" asked Daenerys. "Yes. I think..."

"The dragon's blood," Cassana murmured, thinking back to the books in the Crown's smallest tower. "That's why he thought it was stronger in women than men - if it's in the small seed then a woman could inherit it from both parents while a man could only receive it from his mother."

"Precisely. Since you hatched dragons, I must assume that you inherited that blood in full measure. But Rhaegar and I could only inherit it from mother."

"But there have been men who rode dragons! Many of them!"

"Of course. Riding a dragon is much easier than hatching them. But there are other traits that can be carried in the female line. Our great-grandfather married a Blackwood and the blood of the Old Men entered House Targaryen. Since it's inherited from a female ancestor it must also be through the small seed?"

"But that doesn't mean that you inherited it." Cassana thought a moment. Aerys' parents had been siblings so... likely both had the old blood small seed, his mother the Targaryen small seed as well. Then Aerys wed his sister, who must have had the old blood and... "Daenerys has dragonblood from both sides, so you could have received it from Queen Rhaella."

"Trust me, I have the old blood." Viserys shrugged. "It's a simplication of course, even your father admitted it. And there's some chance that I might have enough dragonblood in me to ride a dragon, but not much better than poor Aegon's."

Cassana noted that upon his death Aegon had been transformed from a potential rival to a mourned for kinsman. "If no one else manages..."

Across the fence a squire from the Westerlands was dragged away from Orbar by a rope tied to his belt. He'd been a handsome youth but now his face was as crimson as his tunic. If he lived, he'd bear the marks for life. The claws on the grey dragon's wings were smaller than those of it's feet - the squire was lucky that Orbar hadn't attacked more viciously.

"There is... oh gods, what is he doing?"

The next man to behind the fence wore the armour and helm of a mystery knight, as if this were some kind of tourney, but he was pushed aside by a more substantial man who wore a tabard in the colours of Griffin's Roost and wore full armour. Once across the fence he donned a helm but everyone had had a chance to see that it was Jon Connington.

"I really don't want to imagine what he'd do with a dragon."

Daenerys frowned. "Why? He was loyal to our nephew."

"He was in love with our brother," Viserys said grimly. "And he raised Rhaegar's son only to lose him. I wouldn't assume he might not do something reckless to King Eddard given the chance."

"Do you think he could?"

"I hope not. But just in case, I hope you can be ready for Banthis to protect the royal stands."

The youngest surviving Targaryen paled and moved to the fence herself, whistling softly for her dragon's attention. The black reared up at Connington's approach while the other two dragons eyed the man with half-lidded eyes.

The evident interest of Banthis drew the crowd's attention but Connington seemed entirely focused upon the violet dragon. He didn't run towards it but nor did he hesitate as the drake slowly craned its neck to point towards him.

"What is this one's name?" he asked, voice carrying to the crowd. Orbar twitched and small flames scorched the earth as he rose and started to move to flank the knight. Qelos remained still save that his eyes were locked upon Connington.

"Qelos," Cassana replied. "It's High Valyrian for -"

"Star, yes I know. I spent most of your life in Essos." Connington shook his head. "Until last night I never wanted Rhaegar's death. But to see his son burned down by one... he would have hated it." The knight extended his left hand to point at Qelos, almost close enough to touch. "Hated you."

Connington's right hand was out of sight for only an instant but he drew his sword with speed many a younger man would have envied.

"Daenerys!" Viserys leapt across the fence, as did the mystery knight who Connington had pushed aside.

"Banthis! Dracarys!"

Connington's sword thrust at Qelos' face and the dragon recoiled. An instant later and the knight was rolling aside as a tongue of golden-red fire tore through the air towards him. He didn't quite make it - his tabard was on fire as he scrambled upright - but ichor dripped from the blade of his sword.

Cassana gripped the fence and stared at Qelos. The dragon was waving his head around and it took only an instant for him to turn enough that she could see that one of the dragon's eyes was a bloody ruin. Spotting prey, Qelos exhaled sharply and flames roared across the enclosure.

With an oath, Viserys hurled himself backwards, scorched but no more. On the other side of the flame, Connington lunged forwards to try to finish the job.

There was a crash as the mystery knight tackled the renegade from his feet. Smashing one heavy gauntlet Connington's helmet, the man pulled back only long enough to draw a weapon of his own. Rather than a sword - unwieldy at close quarters - he drew a needle-pointed ponniard from his belt and thrust it through the eye-slit of Connington's helm.

The long-exiled Lord ceased to struggle, laying upon the ground with the other knight crouched above him. Around them the three dragons stood, one breath away from immolating assassin and defender both.

No one dared move. Anything done, anything said, and hero would die with villain.

Slowly, finally, the knight drew back the ponniard and discarded it. Facing Qelos he wrenched at Connington's helm and yanked it off, revealing a face as disfigured as that of the violet dragon.

With a hiss, Qelos struck, jaws closing around the skull of the stormlander and wrenching it away from the neck. The knight prudently backed away as the other two dragons tore into the body, Qelos seemingly satisfied to crunch at the skull until it broke and then to devour every remain of Connington's face, skull and the brains within.

"Who is that?" whispered Viserys.

"I've no idea."

Satiated, Qelos turned towards the still helmed knight and flapped his wings once, hopping as far as his chains would allow him, facing the man. His head darted forwards and butted against the man's chest. Then again, less forcefully Cassana hoped, against the front of his helm. "By the Stranger... is this..."

"I think so."

The knight reached up and unstrapped his helm, tossing it aside. The face revealed was no older than Cassana's - about Eddard's age. Pale hair and violet eyes but the angles of the face didn't speak of Viserys or of any other Targaryen she'd seen.

On the royal stand, Eddard rose and pushed past his uncle's restraining arm. "What is your name, ser knight?"

The youth looked at Qelos' face, inches from his own, and then at his king. "I'm not yet knighted, your grace. My name is Duncan Selmy."

* * *

  
**Viserys XVII**

Where Westerosi nobles assemble, merchants will shortly arrive to sell luxuries to them. It wasn't so different for sellswords in Essos, although the luxuries tended to be of a lesser quality. On the way south, Viserys had visited a merchant in White Harbour who represented the Iron Bank. By prior agreement with the infamous Braavosi bank - something useful for a sellsword who didn't know where he might end up - he was listed with their representatives and was able to borrow money from them, a loan to be repaid by the bank out of money he'd entrusted to them before.

It wasn't an unusual arrangement in Essos, at least in the daughter cities of whichever of the Free Cities you banked with. Robert had negotiated the extension of the influence of the Iron Bank to the Seven Kingdoms, at least to the major cities. Pentos was probably going to fall into the same financial network now, which Viserys thought would probably have repercussions next time Pentos and Braavos fell out.

In the short term, however, it meant that he'd been able to afford to replenish his wardrobe and dress well for a private dinner with the King.

"It's a long time since King's Landing."

"It is." Eddard leant back in his chair, eyeing the succulence of the chicken pie with anticipation. "I never had a chance to thank you for that advice on dice."

"Just remember to name your first born after me. That's V-I-C-E..."

The young king had just forked some mashed turnip into his mouth and he had to fight not to spit it out as he laughed. "I learned how to spell your name. It's the same as two of your ancestors that Maester Colemon insisted I learn."

"I hope you learned more than that." Viserys cut a sliver from his own portion of pie and bit from it. "You're not that many years from ruling as king in your own right."

"I hope to have Uncle Stannis' support there." Eddard grinned at him. "Yours too, if you're not planning to go back to Essos."

Viserys raised his eyebrows. "Are you offering me a position?"

"Would you accept?"

The Targeryen chewed on another mouthful of the dinner and thought. "Yes."

Eddard slumped slightly in relief. "Thank you. It feels like everyone expects me to just... become my father all over again."

I know how that feels, although I suppose it's not quite the same. Viserys didn't say that though. "It's interesting," he said instead, changing the subject. "The letters we've had about Bolton's Ford... Lord Royce wanted a roll kept of bodies recovered, including those raised by the Others for their armies."

"Aye, to give peace to their kin. What of it?"

"There are bodies accounted for from almost every tower on the Wall and every holdfast pledged to Benjen Stark. A lot of the Houses that took heavy losses at Robert's Stand had their kin found at the ford too. And thousands of wildlings and smallfolk too."

"Naturally." Then Eddard lowered his fork. "So if we compare to the rolls of armsmen available for levy we could have a decent idea of how many of our folk they still have."

"And we can ask Mance Rayder for an estimate of the Free Folk numbers. Thirty or forty thousand gone to Essos and while I didn't get a count when I saw what was left at Robert's Stand, between those dead there and at Bolton's Ford there may be as many who became wights and died."

"It's insane to think that so many men could be killed and a war not be over. There were fewer dead at the Battle of the Trident."

"You're missing the point, Eddard. The Others aren't opening up barrows and tombs. Every wight they send at us was recently dead when they got their hands on it. Which means they have limits on their numbers."

Eddard's eyes went wide. "And we've killed... got to be forty thousand of the wights at least!" He stabbed a finger towards Viserys. "This is exactly why I want you on my Small Council." The boy pushed back his chair and turned to the door. "We should tell Uncle Stannis right away."

"Hold up a moment..."

Eddard yanked open the door and almost ran into the fist of Duncan Selmy, which was raised to knock on the door.

"Your grace," the young man said, lowering his hand quickly and dropping to one knee.

"Lord Duncan?" Eddard glanced at the two Royal Guards who flanked his door. "I wasn't expecting another dinner guest."

"I'm very sorry, your grace. I asked directions to Ser Viserys." Duncan's cheeks flamed. "I didn't think to ask who he was with."

"Well we were just having dinner." Eddard grabbed for his manners. "And you're the man of the day, come in and join us."

"I... thank you, your grace."

Viserys leant back in his chair and examined the youth. Now that the first shock of surviving Qelos' attention was done, how would the dragon shape Lord Barristan's heir?

"So what brings you?" Eddard asked, taking his chair again. The notion of going to Stannis had apparently been knocked right out of his head by the new arrival.

Duncan found a third chair against the wall and moved it up to the table but he didn't sit. "Ser Viserys suggested that he might consider taking me as his squire."

"Squire? But you're to be a dragonrider!?"

"Yes, your grace. But there's no reason I can't - or shouldn't - also be a knight. My father thought Ser Viserys was worthy of knighthood. I couldn't ask for a better judge of whether I might one day be due the same accolade."

Viserys refilled his goblet. "And your mother's opinion?"

The pale-haired boy winced. "She understands, ser. I won't pretend she's entirely happy but she's given her permission."

"Well." He paused and then sipped on the wine. "I wasn't planning to go south anyway."

* * *

  
**Olenna XIII**

"Please don't do this, Willas."

"I have a better chance than most," her grandson told her. Willas patted his chest, which was covered with a padded jacket lined with boiled leather. "The maesters tell me that this cloth is woven of a stone mined in a few corners of the Red Mountains. It can be spun like wool into threads and then woven like linen. Most importantly, it will not burn."

"Oh very clever. Is it also impervious to tooth and claw?"

"I have some hopes of the leather, should it come to that grandmother. But wearing metal would be folly indeed."

More than thirty men had hazarded the dragons now. Orbar was more placid than the other two, but that didn't make the dragon gentle. Fourteen of those who had hazarded her were dead and most of the others would be marked for life.

Olenna shook her head. "Most of those who have stepped forwards are hedgeknights and bastards, men who think they have little to lose. You still have Highgarden, Willas. You should be be considering a marriage to begin rebuilding our family's influence."

"It is fine for you to say that when you did nothing to avoid that influence being lost in the first place."

"Your father's folly was far greater than I thought. Be glad -" she lowered her voice "- that I saw certain letters destroyed or your head would have parted company with your shoulders, Willas. You played with fire."

"And now I shall do so again."

"Why do you think you have a better chance than any of the others."

Willas' lips curved. "For that you may thank my mother."

Olenna made to speak but he raised his hand for silence.

"I know you have scorned her, but think on it. Selmy's light hair marks one of the older bloodlines of the south-west. One that warred with, and sometimes wed to the other petty kings along the Torrentine and the Honeywine."

Alerie Hightower's hair had been as pale as Olenna's even before she wed Mace and bore him four healthy children. As silver as a Targaryen's, some had said. "You think that it is a trace of Valyrian blood in those families?"

"It seems a chance. I have no certainty, of course, but a dragon for Highgarden would go far to reclaim our glory."

"And if you are wrong?" She looked to her grand-daughter, recently delivered of her first born. "Reason with him, Margaery. It seems he does not listen to me."

"We have spoken already." Margaery did not meet Olenna's eyes, instead working at her embroidering. "I have no rule over Highgarden - and little enough in Riverrun with father forced to take the black. Perhaps had I given Hoster a grandson and not a granddaugher..."

"And perhaps if your brother isn't burned to cinders he'll see the Tyrells a princely house. But I doubt it very much!"

"Enough, grandmother. If I die, you can harp at Garlan that you told me so. But my mind is made up."

Olenna had had more years - more decades - than she cared to remember of recognising the times when a Tyrell man was beyond any persuasion she could bring to bear. But it hurt to see Willas reach that point.

Luthor had died because she couldn't persuade him not to ride a horse with more sense. Enough sense not to ride off a cliff, for example. Mace had died because... "Willas -"

"Enough!" he snapped and turned pointedly away. "Margaery could you check the ties on my gauntlets. The left one seems a little loose."

Olenna fumbled for her stick and one of her servants steadied her. "This can only end in fire," she said. "And blood."

Her grandchildren ignored her and after a moment she turned away. Was this her reward, she thought, for years promoting their interests at court?

Mace was waiting for her, clad in plain black. "He wouldn't listen to you?"

"He would not. Have you tried?"

"Who listens to a failure?" Her son folded his hands behind his back. "I have had to come to some acceptance that there are things I can no longer influence. It seems that my sons are one of them." He grimaced. "And yes, I tried anyway."

Olenna couldn't help but suspect that if Willas did bond with the last dragon then it wouldn't be the end of the Tyrell's problems. The Lord Regent might give Willas a chance to prove himself but he would have two dragons - at least as long as he retained the leadership of Viserys' new squire and Daenerys Targaryen - to use against Orbar and Willas if need be.

"If you'd..."

"Oh yes, blame me." Mace sighed. "I still think I was doing the right thing, but the Baratheons would have their way. At least by going north my sons will know that I'm no coward."

"Scant comfort for Loras and probably for Willas now."

Her son reached out to to her and after a moment's hesitation she let him embrace her. "Fewer thorns than I expected," he jested weakly. "We should watch him at least, if there's nothing more we can do."

Olenna nodded and leant upon his arm as they walked towards the enclosure. She ignored the whispers around them as they found a place.

Margaery had escorted Willas to the enclosure but then returned to a cluster of the Tully's bannermen which Olenna thought a wiser decision than the alternatives. Hopefully Edmure would return and sire a son for Margaery, but until then she would need allies.

Both Banthis and Qelos had been removed to seperate enclosures, well away from the crowds, as a precaution and after Connington's madness a score of archers were positioned around the edge of the enclosures with crossbows ready. Plate armour wouldn't resist the bolts at this range, much less Willas' light protection. Perhaps that would at least deter him from obvious defiance.

In the royal box, Eddard remained overshadowed by his formidable uncle. He leant forwards eagerly as the lists, such as they were, opened up for further volunteers. Oddly, the deaths so far hadn't deterred everyone and Willas wasn't even the first in the line. It had at least stopped threats and bribes to secure first place in the line as it was clear that Orbar wouldn't accept anyone based on them being the first there. Quite a number had brought food but that had been halted firmly by Stannis, lest it be poisoned.

Another man maimed - arm lost to Orbar's maw - and a second burned to death when he recklessly tried to loop a chain around the dragon's throat. Then Willas stepped forward, pausing only to allow a rope to be secured to his belt. He'd wrapped his head in the same white cloth that his jacket was made of.

As he walked closer, Orbar watched him with half-lidded eyes. Perhaps the beast was satiated by the mouthful it had already had?

Reaching out, Willis traced the lines of the dragon's jaw and then withdrew his hands. He crouched before it and waited.

Orbar studied the man before him and then extended his nose and sniffed at him. With a hiss, the grey dragon drew back its head and snorted. Then it opened it's maw and a roar mingled with the crackling of flames.

Willas, having perhaps a fraction of a second's warning, flung his arms up in front of his face and dived out of the way, twisting to land on his front. Olenna leant forwards, heart thumping in her chest as her grandson scrambled away. His armour was smoking but flames didn't cling to it and he seemed intact.

With an outraged roar, Orbar flapped her wings, stretching forwards and the great claws on her legs bit into Willas, around the hips.

Screaming the young lord of Highgarden was dragged in two directions as men hauled on the rope of his belt, trying to resist the dragon's pull. Mace tried to climb the fence but one of the archers turned and gestured sharply with his weapon, wordlessly threatening consequences.

"Willas," screamed Margaery, catching hold of the rope and adding her small weight to that resisting Orbar's pull.

Orbar's jaws snapped forwards, severing the rope and then Olenna could see only red and black. Her heart thundered, every breath tearing at her chest as she took it. She fell into strong arms and knew nothing...


	39. Chapter 39

**Stannis XX**

Orys opened the door for Stannis' next visitor and at his father's nod he left the room, leaving the two alone.

"A Blackfyre. Aerys was a fool."

Varys - that was still the name he went by, claiming that habit of decades had made it more familiar than his birth name - smiled softly. "Perhaps, although he had a certain cunning, your highness."

"I'd like to think I'm not a fool." He paused. "Then again, I'd hope the same of my nephew and he wants to bring Viserys onto the Small Council."

"There's something to be said for keeping your friends close and your enemies closer."

Stannis grunted. "It's important to know which is which." Viserys didn't resent Eddard the way that he had Robert but he'd only set his ambitions aside while there was a greater threat. If the Others were defeated - and the theory that the armies of wights were limited in numbers raised some hope that it might be possible - then Viserys would again be a significant threat.

"Ah, well that is the question isn't it?"

"Yes. Some would say that you're an enemy."

"I? I am the most harmless of men."

"You knew of Aegon, that doesn't speak of your harmlessness."

"I arranged the rescue of a small child from Tywin Lannister's bannermen," Varys replied amiably. "I'm fairly sure from various hints that your brother knew that much and approved. I admit I lost track of Aegon when Jon Connington went into hiding but at that point I was no longer in Robert's employ so I didn't feel any obligation to inform him about it."

"So your loyalty is whoever is currently paying you?"

That amused the eunuch or at least started him tittering. "Lord regent, it was your brother's choice to end my duty to him."

"So what is it that men such as you desire? You cannot rule, no one would follow a eunuch. You had wealth in Pentos but left it behind to follow Viserys north beyond the Wall..."

"Alas, such is the distrust directed towards me that I doubt any answer I might give would be satisfactory, so I choose to give none."

Stannis thought he noted some pride to that statement. That might be what motivated the man. In a twisted sense he saw being distrusted as a sign of respect. "A reputation that you cultivate. It's interesting that of all of Aerys' court it was you who my brother exiled."

"Yes." Varys frowned. "I haven't yet had the opportunity to extend my condolences."

"Hmm." He shook his head. Everyone and their dog had wanted part of his time to speak of Renly, Robert and anyone else they thought he might care about. "The important matter is where we go from here. My priority is keeping the rest of my family alive, which will be harder with Olenna Tyrell's... condition."

"I understand the Maesters to have high hopes for her recovery."

"Eventually." And they had some worrying things to say about how complete that recovery might be. Stannis didn't claim especial knowledge of medicine but he gathered it was possible that even if she woke that her wits might not be what they were before. It was a frightening thought to imagine the Queen of Thorns reduced in such a fashion.

Varys nodded as if he read sufficiently into that word to guess at Stannis' feelings. "Would you be more comfortable if we avoided further pleasantries in favour of getting to your reasons for meeting me. You've never struck me as a man fond of small talk."

"You're right about that." He steepled his fingers. "With Olenna unavailable, I need a Master of Whispers."

The eunuch's eyes widened slightly. "Are you sure you'd trust any recommendation I made?"

"You're an intelligent man. You may not be trustworthy in other respects but I think you'd see that stopping what's happening in the North is more important than anyone's personal ambitions. Robert placed great weight on the ability to take a score of small facts and build up a bigger picture from them. I'm not convinced my alternatives are better than you at that. And Westeros needs the best."

"You are serious."

"As you said, keep your enemies where you can see them. I'm not turning you loose on the rest of Westeros, just on matters in the North and sitting on the Small Council. I'm sure that will absorb at least half of your attention."

"My word." Varys sat back in the chair. "You do know how to tempt a man. I take it that Obara Martell and Bella Bolton will still have your ear. May I hope they'll share anything they feel I may find relevant?"

Stannis grunted. It didn't surprise him that Varys had guessed at some of the others who would be listening to whispers. "If you will do the same."

"Then I will begin by directing your attention to Melisandre of Asshai, a part of your goodsister's entourage." Varys buried his hands in his sleeves. "Her religious beliefs are..."

"I don't care what gods she worships."

"Oh?" The other man tilted his head. "She believes her god cares a great deal about you."

* * *

  
**Sansa VII**

Icy storms clawed at the mountains of the North. Most of the villages had been abandoned, farmers and hunters taking their families to more sheltered settlements. Not all had and Sansa had ceased to weep for those clans who remained. She thought she had no more tears and a numbness dulled the pain she felt.

It began with the hunters. A man with a family to support wouldn't ignore one of the mountain boars if it came in view of the village. It was one of the lesser Others, not their lord, who walked with Sansa this time. White robed, like his master, hair light and disorderly. The wind should have tugged at it but it didn't touch him.

He'd pressed her, struggling, against the fur of the boar. "Ride it."

She'd felt its fur against her face, his hand against her collar. The boar seemed to notice nothing, she felt its breath hot compared to the winter air.

At first she tried straddling it like a horse but that didn't please him. "Not ride." He seemed to struggle with the Common tongue, looking for the right words to convey his meaning. "Wear the boar. Be the boar."

The pressure of his hand was crushing... and then it was gone. She felt warm, strong. She stood upon four feet. Her face was very different, tusks jutting out of her jaw.

"I... I'm a boar."

"Nay." The wight's voice was a whisper in her hear. "But by thy magic, I may ride the boar."

Her new legs moved like a puppet's, clumsily at first and then with increasing confidence. She... they... the boar moved past the village, catching the attention of the inhabitants. Only when men were see moving out of the wooden cabins with boar spears did the wight draw her out.

"What... what was that?"

His lips peeled back from his teeth. "The gift of our elders, through your blood."

Old blood, she thought. The old tales... men who wed Children of the Forest... seers, skinwalkers... the wargs... But I'm not a warg. But what other explanation is there?

The wight dragged on her cloak. "Now the wolves," he order.

"W-wolves?" Like the direwolf that her father had been?

"Wolves," he agreed. "Reach out."

"I don't want to!"

His fingers closed upon her chin and forced her face up to meet his blazing eyes. "Did thy menfolk's swords scream protests, might they refrain from striking?"

"I... I-I..."

"Know thy place!"

A pack of wolves were laired in caves above the village. Sansa rode them like a single beast, their differing views making her head ache. She saw the hunters from the village, boar-spears ready as they stalked the prey they hunted.

The men had no idea that it was they that were prey until it was far too late.

Sansa could taste the blood of the northmen, the blood of smallfolk pledged to her family, as the pack descended upon them from behind and tore them down. She screamed denials but all that came from her borrowed throats were truimphant howls.

I cannot do this, she thought. When they take me from the chair... I must end this. They can't keep me in their throne forever. It's been days, weeks? When I'm released I can... I can...

When had she last been free from the chair beneath the tree?

Released at last from the wolves she knelt and stared up at the sky. There were clouds but she could see the moon and some of the stars. Years ago she and Cassana Baratheon had lain upon the top of one of Winterfell's towers, their fathers flanking them and Maester Luwin pointing out the constellations, the great wheel in the sky, names of Old Gods from her father, Luwin telling them them names used by Andals, Valyrians and the Rhoynar. King Robert had laughed and invented his own, ridiculous names that made the two girls giggle.

In the sky to the north, through a break in the storms, she saw the stars the King had called the 'prince of all monkeys', a flame-like wedge of stars she had seen in the sky when she was at Queenscrown - marking the sky above the Wall. But now... now it was nearly back to the north.

They have had me a year, Sansa thought, and she wept as she was dragged by the wight towards his next cruelty.

* * *

  
**Ned XX**

Ned could still taste venison in his throat as he lay, head on forepaws, near the hearthfire at Long Lake. Edmure and Rickard sat at a table close enough to the hearth that they had been able to strip down to woollen shirts and breeches, sharing a jug of honey-mead.

It took Ned back in some ways. Was this how he and Hoster Tully had looked, the night before Ned's wedding to Catelyn? Edmure certainly had much of his father's looks and both of the Longstark boys favoured their Stark blood.

"We're losing patrols," Rick said, a note in his voice that caught Ned's attention. He was sure he didn't sound like that... but he'd heard that angry tone from his brother once. He was sure it was how Brandon sounded before he left Riverrun to ride for King's Landing. "We should have pressed them back."

"If the Tyrells had sent their men north earlier, perhaps we could." Edmure had slapped bread and cheese around bacon and took a bite before reaching for his mug. "If the east hadn't been pressed, perhaps we could. But if and perhaps don't change the fact that they didn't and it was."

"We won't beat the Others by sitting back here."

"Have you seen the Others?" Edmure took a gulp from his ale as the younger man shook his head grudgingly. "Nor I. Which makes it hard to know what will kill them."

"Shortening them by a head ought to do it," huffed Rick but he refilled his own mug. "They're moving though."

"I know." Ned's goodbrother accepted the offer of the jug. "Make plans and think about what supplies we'd need to push north. Once we know where to go, once the Reachmen get here... That'll be the time."

Ned closed his eyes. There was a peculiar focus to it but with Howland's advice and a lot of practice it usually took no more than two or three attempts. When he opened them he was looking at shadowy rafters. South of the Neck it was colder than usual but not worse than he'd been used to at Winterfell in spring or fall. His window was open and moonlight streamed through it. Why it helped, he couldn't guess but when the moon was high in the sky it was much easier to reach the direwolves still in the north.

With a sigh he closed his eyes again. His ancestors had done this and he had to wonder if they'd left any records at Winterfell to guide those who followed them. If they had they were long lost. Not for the first time he wondered if that was intentional. There had been several times when the direct line of Starks had been replaced by cousins and some had been after Maesters had been sufficiently accepted north of the Neck that members of their order had had access to Winterfell's archives.

'Trust,' Robert had told him one night in King's Landing, during the Great Council, 'and be betrayed. Don't trust and you betray yourself.' Southern politics in a nut-shell, and even the Neck hadn't kept it entirely out of the North. Then again, right now the North needed the Southern Kingdoms badly. Stannis had been blunt about the fact he had contingency plans for fortifying the Neck if the North became indefensible.

To pay that price wouldn't break House Baratheon's power, but Ned was certain, bone-deep, that it would mean the end for his family.

He closed his eyes again. Brandon had named the white direwolf Ghost when he and Ned met at Long Lake and he had to admit the name fit. The beast was the stealthiest of the pack, harder to find than a wolf the size of a pony should be.

Stealthy enough? Ned hoped so. He opened his eye, squinted up at the rafters and sighed. Then closed them again...

His paws pressed against snow and he raised his nose to sniff the air. No living men to the north, from which the wind blew. Ned and Ghost drifted quietly into the wind, moving from rock to rock and from tree to tree. He hoped, whenever he did this, that he might find Sansa again. So far he hadn't been so fortunate.

Unless Ghost had wandered considerably since last night, they should be west of the Kingsroad. The road hadn't been patrolled when Viserys used it on the way south, but for that reason there was probably little to learn there. If the Targaryen was to be believed, Jaime Lannister had followed the trail of his sister's captors west from Castle Black. Sansa was likely with Cersei and both were likely in some stronghold of the Others.

There would be no trail now, but Ned felt that no trail would have turned west unless the Others were using one of the castles of the Wall. That would be information worth finding. Of course, there was also the concern that with no Wall to mark the border between his North and the True North, it would be easy for Ghost to wander past it.

The sky had cleared and under moon and stars, Ned found that his concerns were groundless. Whatever had happened to the Wall, there remained a broad line carved in the earth where its foundations had once been. Ghost found what was left of a brazier that must have once been upon the Wall and had been brushed aside by whatever happened.

Ned let Ghost hunt down something to eat - even in winter there was something careless enough to stray out - while he pondered what to do. Check east first, or set out west. He wasn't sure exactly how far west of Castle Black he was. He didn't know the landmarks and it wasn't as if Ghost could ask anyone.

East, he decided, and once the direwolf had fed they headed that way. Ned had seen drawings and maps of all the castles of the North. At one time or another, his ancestors had had to fight their way into practically all of them, after all.

Even the Wall's forts - six hundred years ago there had been a civil war within the Night's Watch and Harlon Stark had taken the Night's Fort and Snowgate - Queensgate, it was called now - and executed the rival commanders. He'd restored order at the price of killing the brother of Lord Bolton and Harlon had spent years bringing the Boltons back under the control of Winterfell.

At least that old rivalry wasn't rearing up now. He'd seen Robb through the eyes of direwolves, riding alongside Domeric Bolton. The two young men were close, something good to come of all this. Perhaps if...

His thoughts were cut off as Ghost came in view of something that shouldn't be there.

No castle of the Night's Watch was so huge and none were made of ice. Ned kept the direwolf looking at it, trying to engrave every detail that could be seen from this hill upon his mind, until the sun glittered on the eastern horizon. He'd found the lair of the Others... but he wasn't entirely sure what could be done about it.

It towered above the forest, reminding Ned in some ways of the Eyrie, in its height and the narrow road up its side. So large that sieging it would take a vast army, so tall that storming it would be a nightmare.

He closed his eyes at last, finding that his chamber had not yet received the light of the sun. "Gods. I hope Robert's King's Men have an answer to this."

* * *

  
**Varys XVIII**

Being a member of the Small Council, if one with not-so-subtly drawn limits, had meant Varys had a room in Darry castle rather than remaining in the inn with Viserys, Bronn and Thoros. After months in their company, he couldn't help but be glad of that.

This also meant, however, that when someone hammered upon the door of his chamber in the middle of the night there was no one else to get out of bed to deal with whatever it was.

Fumbling with a candle and matches, he sat up in his bed. "Who is it?"

"Lord Varys, it's Obara Baratheon. We need to talk."

Varys set down the candle and unbolted the door. "At this time of night? Most men would appreciate your company I suppose." He held a dagger in his free hand. There was no specific reason to think that the Martells - and Obara was far more a Martell than a Baratheon, even if she'd had the second name for years longer than the brief interval she'd worn the former - were out to kill him, but there was no reason to believe that they weren't.

Obara was alone, at least. "I think you're confusing me with my sister. I don't have aspirations to another royal wedding."

"And does she?" He ushered her inside and used his candle to light the lantern on his one small table. There were two unpadded wooden chairs - this wasn't King's Landing or the allegedly sumptuous Crown of Westeros.

Prince Renly's widow sat down without waiting for invitation. "Nymeria's mother was of the Volantene Old Blood and Arianne wouldn't give up Sunspear to sit beside Aegon on whatever throne he envisaged."

Varys nodded. "I suppose you've set precedent for legitimising one of Prince Oberyn's daughters for a royal marriage."

His guest studied the table. "I didn't plan that."

"My lady, that you had no plan for yourself doesn't mean that others don't have a place for you in theirs. So, what is it that brings you hear at this hour?"

"Melisandre of Asshai."

"Ah. A woman worthy of concern. I find her shift of focus from your cousin to your goodbrother a little convenient."

"You aren't the only one." Obara looked him in the eye. "It doesn't matter at this point if Aegon was truly my cousin or not. What matters is that Viserys has no means of contending for the throne and Daenerys has no intention. That virtually guarantees a secure Baratheon succession and a stable start to Eddard's reign, at least politically."

"Nothing that rests in human hands can be called stable, but it bodes well for King Eddard to have his most pressing rival removed with no blame falling to him."

"I don't believe that Melisandre bodes as well for my nephew."

Varys frowned. "A troubling thought. If I understand it correctly, she considers herself loyal to Prince Stannis - not something he is entirely appreciative of."

"Well he's not a fool." Obara leant back. "I don't believe he'd approve if Melisandre arranged for him to succeed the throne."

"That would be treason. I believe he would be very wroth." Varys eyed the Dornishwoman. "Do you believe she would act so unwisely."

"Her faith speaks of Azor Ahai as the unquestioned leader of men against the Great Others. Not as him being regent to another leader or stepping aside in favor of, to be fair, an untested boy."

"May I speak frankly, Lady Obara?"

"Please do."

"Why are you telling me this and not Prince Stannis? And why at this hour?"

"Prince Stannis has crossed the Trident to inspect the war camps on the road north and I suspect Melisandre knows my feelings on the matter." Obara gave him a dour look. "It's possible I may not survive to his return, but I've argued against appointing you as Master of Whispers. If something happens to me, it's unlikely she'd suspect I'd confide in you."

"I'm flattered." He hadn't thought the rather direct Obara would be able to play so well. Perhaps it was her uncle's counsel. "I -"

There was a scream from outside the keep. Both leapt to the feet and Varys rushed to the window, throwing open the shutters. Cold wind struck his face as he looked out over the bailey. Torches flared in brackets and guards huddling on the castle wall were shuffling and looking towards the keep.

The door banged as Obara burst into the passageway. "That came from the royal quarters," she snapped.

"...of course." Varys went to his bed and lifted the mattress, pulling Dark Sister from beneath it.

"You hid it under your bed?"

"And somehow it hasn't been stolen yet. I can't explain it." He joined her at the door and they made their way towards the apartments being used by the royal family. As Master of Whispers, Varys chamber was in the same wing but one floor below. The stairwell upwards was within the main keep, with doors separating it from the wing on each level.

The King's Men guarding the door were looking alarmed but remained at their posts. As far as Varys was aware, having researched the security arrangements around House Baratheon (purely out of intellectual curiosity), that was the correct response. In a crisis the King's Men were to restrict passage through the area, except by the Royal Guards and royal family themselves. The two men dropped their halberds to block Varys' passage.

Obara bulled past him. "Let us pass!"

The men exchanged looks and then raised their halberds. Obara grabbed one of the halberds from the men. "I'll give it back later," she promised and ran up the stairs.

Varys shrugged and followed. The guards at the top were similarly brushed aside by Obara but they dropped their weapons in the way of Varys. "Your pardon, my lady," the elder said. "You're allowed in but the Spider isn't, without someone to vouch for him."

"There's no time to argue," Varys said hastily.

Obara pushed the double doors open and the smell of blood reached Varys' nose. The wing was much like that below, a long narrow hall with windows along the southern side and doors to private chambers on the right. Chairs had been toppled and two knights lay on the floor, one half-upon the bloodied body of one of the maids. A third knight was at the far end of the hall, sword raised in one hand while the other held back the young king. Eddard clutched his father's hammer in both hands.

Between the bodies and the king, an indistinct figure stood. Few lanterns were still lit and Varys could barely see a man's shape stood in the shadows. At the sound of the door opening, it spun cat-quick and lunged. Obara threw herself aside, raising her borrowed weapon in parry.

The halberd shaft, good honest oak, parted like silk and only the fact Obara was moving already saved her from more than a cut across her ribs. She rolled across the floor and away, the shadow after her.

"Aunt Obara!" Eddard brushed past the knight defending him and rushed towards the attacker, hammer raised for a mighty blow.

The man - no, more shadow than man! - dropped to one knee and avoided the hammer easily, the blade in it's hand snapping around to slash into the young king's knee and then a backstroke that cut through the flesh of the opposite thigh, barely below the groin. Eddard's hammer went flying and he fell, face white.

Varys grasped the hilt of Dark Sister and drew it forth, throwing the scabbard behind him. "Save the king!" he shouted to the King's Men and lunged for the assassin.

The sword whirled up in a parry of his inexperienced cut and Varys saw the lines of a familiar face, showing surprise as the valyrian blade parted the other's weapon as if it were no more than mist and plunged into the shadows. Expecting more resistance, Varys over balanced and stumbled against a long table at this end of the hall.

He rose and found no sign of the opponent. Brynden Tully, wearing only a nightshirt, stood in the door by the two King's Men, his own sword in hand. Obara had reached her feet again, hands pressed against her wound and Eddard Baratheon...

A pool of blood was forming below the king, his face pallid as more blood vomited forth from where he clutched at his thigh. He looked up at the door. "Uncle Brynden..."

"Hold on, lad." Brynden dropped to his knee and slapped his own hands over the wound. "A maester! Fetch a maester!"

"I would have... at least liked..." Eddard slumped backwards onto the floor, voice dropping. "...a dragon."

Varys turned his head back and forth, looking for the shadowy figure he'd seen. Was it in the shadows? Was it gone somehow.

"Put your sword down, Varys," grated the Lord Commander of the Royal Guards as the king bled out under his hands. "You're under arrest."


	40. Chapter 40

**Stannis XXI**

The great hall of Darry was packed with the great and good. On their way in, everyone had filed past the bier upon which Eddard lay. It had taken quite a long time for respects to be paid and soon there would be the ordeal of the formal funeral. Under the circumstances, leaving the body lying in state longer than it had to be seemed an unnecessary risk. So far the others hadn't raised the bodies of the dead anywhere south of Winterfell, but the prospect of Eddard being raised in that way wasn't to be contemplated.

The chair usually used by Lord Darry was in the centre of the dais, left empty. Some had suggested that Stannis should sit in it. He'd declined.

"Aerys Blackfyre." Stannis held the sheathed Dark Sister in both hands. "Sometimes known as Varys. Step forwards."

The Spider obeyed, flanked by two of the grimfaced King's Men. "Lord Regent."

Murmurs arose from the lords at the confirmation of Varys' identity. Rumours had circulated for a while but now it was made public. Stannis ignored them and instead gestured for the King's Men to step away. "Lord Aerys, testimony of those present has confirmed your only involvement in the death of King Eddard was to enter the royal apartments in an attempt to repel the assassin. Ser Brynden."

The Lord Commander stepped forwards and accepted Dark Sister, returning it Varys. "My apologies for your arrest," he said, voice flat.

"You did your duty, Ser Brynden." Varys held the sword loosely, for a moment, not having a swordbelt. "And I'm not a lord, your highness."

Stannis pulled out a scroll. "I discussed this matter with King Eddard before his death." He tried to smile and thought he had failed. "So far as I'm aware it's the last decree he signed. Certainly the last I counter-signed as his regent."

Varys took the scroll and cracked the seal. He took in the contents at a glance. "Blackfyre Keep?"

"And modest lands to support it. Your ancestor never quite built a castle equal to his ambitions... one supposes he intended to obtain another." The Red Keep, had he managed to usurp Daeron II's throne. "Still, it's convenient to King's Landing."

"I am most grateful." The man ducked his head in acknowledge.

"Your oaths will be taken shortly. For now, you may join the rest of the Small Council." Stannis did his best to avoid letting his gaze stray to the tiny knot of officers of the Golden Company. Hopefully they'd take this as a sign that they could also expect rewards in the future.

Once Varys and Brynden were in place, Stannis' face hardened. "There have been rumours of how my nephew died," he said quietly. The lords fell silent, trying to hear him. "And who assassinated him. The fact is that the defences around King Eddard weren't circumvented by any ordinary assassin, or even by one of the infamous Braavosi assassins. Bring forth the shadowbinder."

Brynden hadn't stopped at arresting Varys. Erring on the side of caution, he'd detained everyone involved and everyone that they implicated or accused. There had been a great many ruffled feathers and Stannis was in no mood to be soothing. He needed a Hand but who was there?

Melisandre arrived in artful disarray. The red priestess might be playing for sympathy with those around. Her dress, low cut, would probably have a predictable effect on the young men. "My prince," she almost purred, drawing up her skirts in a curtsey.

"Melisandre of Asshai. The survivors of the attack report that the assassin had no more semblence than a shadow, that its sword could not be parried and that it cut through the armour of the Royal Guard." On cue, the breastplates of the two knights who had died trying to defend Eddard were brought forth, revealing rents in the metal. A warhammer such as Robert's could perhaps have punched its spike through, but not in this fashion. "This raises understandable suspicion about someone who claims magical abilities involving shadows."

The woman opened her mouth but before she spoke, he raised his hands. "Not to mention the discovery of a man in your chambers, stabbed through the heart, the same night."

While that didn't shake her composure, the somewhat skeptical looks from some of the crowd grew concerned. Magic might be difficult for rational men to accept if they hadn't seen it themselves, but murder was something they could understand.

"I protest my innocence, Prince Stannis. The man killed was my guest and I had no cause to seek to harm your nephew."

"No?" He glanced to his side. "Lady Obara? The accused came Westeros in your company. Would you say that?"

"That's right!" The call came from one of the Carons. "She was with the Targaryen! She would have harmed Eddard in revenge!"

"If her words in private are to be believed, Lord Caron, then that would not be her intent." Obara leant on her spear - though her wound was bound, she was far from recovered. "Your highness, Lady Melisandre has stated since Aegon's death that she felt herself to have been mistaken in supporting Aegon as King. She had a new candidate in mind."

"And who did she think to have on the throne." This had been rehersed of course. "Another Targaryen?"

Viserys and Daenerys stepped out of the crowd. "She spoke nothing of that to me, indeed we have barely exchanged a word. Sister?"

The younger Targaryen shook her head. "Nay, brother. And even had we been approached, this is no time for division within Westeros."

"Quite so." Obara nodded in agreement. "Her candidate was you, Prince Stannis."

"I?" He shook his head. "Does she mistake me for an usurper? For a kinslayer?" He turned his glare upon Melisandre. "Do not imagine that I would ever be grateful for such!"

"Though it does make you the king, now."

There was no identifying who had spoken, but he'd be surprised if less than half those in the hall had thought that. "It does not." He raised his voice. "It does not!" The closest men drew back and Melisandre paled. "Lest you forget, my brother has three daughters who stand ahead of me."

"You would give a girl the crown?"

"It is not mine to give. It is Cassana's by right - and after hers, Lyanne's and Steffana's. Let no one doubt that were any to harm my nieces, the only reward I would give them would death!"

There was a long silence.

"So," he said heavily. "Regicide in some deluded attempt to make a king of me? How pathetic."

Melisandre raised her chin. "You are destined to lead us against the Others. I have no cause to attack your nephew, for as his Regent you are already our leader."

"And yet, Azor Ahai rose up in your legends by murdering his wife. Ascension through betrayal seems very much to be part of your religion." Obara shook her head. "You knew I had suspicions of you... But that is why I don't feel King Eddard's death was your plan, not that night."

Was it not? Stannis looked at his good-sister and then narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

"The assassin, however it was conjured, arrived in the royal apartments without passing the guards. If Eddard was the goal, it could surely have gone directly to his chamber. Yet the chamber it left was mine. I believe that I was the target. I knew of Melisandre's concerns that once Eddard was of age he would take the lead and dismiss Prince Stannis' guidance. But Eddard would not reach manhood for years. There was no urgency to remove him. But if I shared those concerns - and the reason I wasn't in my chamber is that I was discussing those concerns with Lord Blackfyre - then Melisandre might find her influence limited. So my death was better for her the sooner it happened."

"You say that Eddard's death was an accident?"

"I believe that when I wasn't found, the assassin moved into the main hall of the apartments and found Eddard there." She sighed. "You know he was pugnacious, Stannis. He saw an intruder, he challenged him..."

The first time Obara had told him this theory, Stannis had found it so senseless that he couldn't believe it. Even now it drained him to hear it said. Anyone could have been in the hall, even late at night. His own sons, Aemma or Alysanne...

"And the man killed, this Bronn?"

"Stabbed through the chest?" Obara asked. "It was Aerys Blackfyre who repelled the shadow, your highness. He stabbed it in the chest with Valyrian steel. Bronn, I think, was Melisandre's tool. Whether he knew his part I couldn't guess."

Stannis nodded slowly. "He stands beyond our judgement now." He turned his gaze to Melisandre. "You, I shall not judge. Take her away. Queen Cassana is little more than a month from her majority. When I lay down my regency, you will be brought before her and may make account then. Pray to your Red God that she feels mercy for you."

"Do not doubt R'hllor, Stannis Baratheon. Even now he guides you towards your destiny."

"To the hells with your god, woman. I need nothing of him and I want nothing of him. We will win this war with our own hands, our own swords. And the victory will be ours, not his."

The red woman lowered her face, but her lips curled in satisfaction. "As Azor Ahai decrees..."

Stannis spat on the floor as King's Men pulled Melisandre roughly away. "Gods..." he said in disgust.

* * *

  
**Obara IX**

The court was packing to prepare for their departure from Darry. Even without a third dragon rider, the military conferences which had been part of the reason to move court northwards had been carried out and the death of Eddard demanded that House Baratheon withdraw to King's Landing and potentially to Storm's End as well.

Obara would have liked to extend that to visit her children at Summerhall but her uncle had instructed her to remain near the court - near Cassana if possible, Stannis if not. She'd asked what to do if both sent her away and Doran had flatly directed her in that case to accompany Prince Stark to the Isle of Faces.

Not that that seemed likely. Varys - now Lord Blackfyre - wasn't significantly more trusted than before so Obara's position as Doran's mouthpiece to share information remained a necessary counter-balance. She thought that the only reason Varys had been granted the keep was that as a eunuch he wouldn't have an heir to pass his potentially dangerous bloodline on to.

For now she was attending on the new queen. Cassana wore the reversed Baratheon colours - gold-trimmed black - that had become their custom for mourning. There had been ample opportunities for wearing it of late. The maids working made any peace impossible in the royal apartments so Cassana had withdrawn to the top of a tower and she was looking north, across the Trident.

"Are you watching for ravens?"

"No." The girl shook her head, braided black hair flipping back and forth.

Since she didn't add anything else, Obara decided that the only thing to bring to the conversation was silence. She looked over the side of the tower at the wagons being loaded. Besides those that would carry the chests containing royal possessions - clothes, tapestries, everything down to cutlery - there were additional wagons by the barn-like shelters that the dragons sheltered in overnight. Despite Duncan Selmy's optimism, Daenerys Targaryen had been very firm that the dragons weren't old enough to be ridden yet - although that point should be reached early the next year by her estimations.

Obara blinked and focused on the barns. There seemed to be something of a ruckus developing around one of them.

"Is something the matter?"

She looked and saw that Cassana had turned towards her. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Something seems to have happened around the dragon pens."

"That's Orbar's shelter," Cassana noted. "Perhaps someone's trying to bond with him before he's taken back to King's Landing."

"I suppose we could still benefit from having a third dragon-rider."

"There would be some argument to keep a dragon at home. The Maesters are somewhat unclear as to how draconic reproduction works and the Targaryens didn't leave an explanation. Ideally we could do with a dragon safe in the south to lay eggs."

"I'd imagine that we'll need two, at least."

Cassana nodded. "Well, it seems likely." She turned to the stairs. "We can investigate. It'll save me from waiting for uncle to explain it all to me later."

Down the stairs they went, pausing at one point so a chest could be carried ahead of them. Obara raised her hand to have them stop and allow Cassana to go first but the younger woman caught her wrist and smiled graciously at the servants, telling them to carry on.

"It's wisest," she murmured to Obara, "To let people get on with their work and only disrupt it with good reason. However high your station, you're never too high to respect those who support you."

Obara couldn't see her father making such a statement... but it wasn't beyond her imagination that Prince Doran might have. More than likely, she thought, Cassana had learned that from her father.

Fortunately for her patience, which she admitted to be limited, there were no other obstructions as they left the tower and crossed the bailey towards the dragons' enclosures.

Banthis' shelter was the nearest and they reached it at around the same moment as Ser Viserys, who bowed his head towards Cassana with an air that somehow made it clear it was as far as he'd bend. "I must assume my sister is already dealing with whatever this is," he said out loud. "Since she's not here."

He joined their little party and then took the lead in pushing through the stablehands, servants and squires clustering around Orbar's compound, unaccountably unaware that their young Queen was among them.

The reason for this was clear as the three of them reached the front of the crowd. Daenerys Targaryen stood before Orbar, speaking soothingly to the beast in High Valyrian. Amid the very coils of the grey dragon's tail, not far from one of its muscular legs, crouched a woman with pale skin and dark eyes, long dark hair drawn back in a braid not entirely unlike Cassana's.

"Nymeria," hissed Obara.

Cassana's blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "The one with Volantene blood. Volantene old blood, in fact."

Obara nodded, tightly. Nymeria's dark hair gave no hint of that heritage, but through her mother she might have as much Valyrian blood as Viserys or Daenerys. The nobility of Volantis, the Old Blood, prided themselves on their unbroken descent from the Valyrian colonists who had first founded their city as the westernmost stronghold of the Valyrian Freehold.

Before their eyes, Orbar craned his head around towards Nymeria who reached up and rubbed the dragon's nose. Perhaps not affectionately as such but...

"Bugger," Viserys said with feeling as he took in the identity of Westeros' newest dragon-rider.

* * *

  
**Cassana IX**

As much as she'd have preferred to ride, this was apparently beneath the dignity of a queen and Cassana was confined to a wheelhouse for the ride back down the Kingsroad. She had a feeling she'd find herself in similar positions for a while and - at least until her nameday - she was going to have to pick her battles carefully.

"Isn't it called the Queensroad now?" Steffana asked from the seat next to her.

"I think that would confuse everyone who used it. Let's say I'm looking after it until there's another king."

"Like Eddard or like Papa?"

"I suppose more like father. Eddard was never old enough to rule without a regent."

Steffana kicked her legs out under her skirts. Only five years old, her feet didn't reach the floor when sat on the wheelhouse's bench. "Wasn't Uncle Stannis Papa's Hand?"

"Yes, but that isn't the same thing." She thought and then held up her right hand. "A Hand is supposed to be like a king or queen's right hand. Uncle Stannis ran the kingdom when there was too much for father to do himself or when father couldn't stay in King's Landing."

"If Papa had stayed in King's Landing, he wouldn't be dead, would he?"

Cassana looked out at the bare tree branches visible through the wheelhouse window. "He might have fallen off a horse or something but... probably he'd be with us."

"Lyanne said he told her stories late in the day. Did he tell you stories?"

"Yes, of course. He used to tell you stories too."

"I don't remember."

Turning her head, Cassana examined her sister. Of course, she thought. Steffana was barely talking when father rode North. He'd been away a year already when he died and that was... She shook her head. The one thing sure in life, father had told her once, was that no life lasted forever. So when someone died, don't dwell on what you lost - celebrate what you had. "Would you like me to tell you a story?"

Steffana considered that solemnly. "Would you tell me a story that papa told you?"

She smiled back. "Yes, I can do that. He told me..." The image of their father floated in front of her, as if her memory of him from years ago was there, facing her across the wheelhouse. She'd imagined his face often when tucked into a bed beside his, lying in the dark as his voice lulled her to sleep.

"Once, long ago, in the Age of Heroes, there was a terrible king named Londo of the House Mollari. He was old and weary. He knew that his death would soon be upon him. And as he sat on his throne, in an empty hall, waiting for the man with one eye... he heard children playing."

"They were the family of Urza Jaddo, who had once been King Londo's closest comrade. The king called them before him and offered them one boon of him, before he could protect them no more. The boy asked that the king tell them a story, one with battles and heroes and villians. But his sister, she asked for a true story."

"What happened to Urza Jaddo?" asked Steffana.

Cassana thought she'd asked the same question. "He died in a trial by combat," she answered. "But today I'll tell you the tale that Londo told to the children."

"Did he tell them a true story, or one with battles and villains?"

"He told them a true story, one with great deeds and great empires. About the places where they lived, and fought, and loved, and died."

"Why does everyone die?"

"No one lives forever, Steffana. Everyone is born the same, and everyone dies at the end. But between these we have life. Do you want to hear the story?"

The girl smoothed her skirt and nodded.

"Long ago, when the First Men were still crossing the Narrow Sea to Westeros, they didn't all come at the same time. Each tribe crossed alone, and met the tribes who'd come before them and tried to find their place. They didn't have knights in those days, but they had kings and bannermen and swornmen. When Jon Sheridan's tribe crossed the sea, he was a young man, but his father was known to the king so he was offered the chance to join the warriors of Jon Kowski, who was to ride westwards and find lands for the tribe."

"Jon Sheridan knew that Jon Kowski was a proud man, and ambitous. And he had pledged his sword to Lord Lexington, so he thanked the king most graciously but declined. He told the king that he'd given his word and would follow Lord Lexington as he had promised. The king told him that he had made a poor choice and wouldn't make his name like that, but Jon Sheridan was firm by his word and Jon Kowski went west without him..."

* * *

  
**Ned XXI**

The wolf tower of the Crown was almost empty. Ned wasn't sure he should even be here. The Isle of Faces was to the north and he'd planned to turn west from the road. Stannis had told him that he must represent the North and so he had continued southwards all the way to King's Landing. Something told him that his decision not to serve as Hand to his namesake was something that wouldn't be forgotten soon by the lord of Byrnbridge.

King's Landing was much as he recalled from the Great Council. Still, at least it was an improvement over the way it had smelt when he first entered the city, right after Tywin Lannister had sacked it.

It was hard to remember that it was half his lifetime since those days. He could still remember finding Jaime Lannister sat upon the Iron Throne, and a few days later the arrival of Robert...

The bells of the city, which had been ringing off and on all morning, fell silent. Ned found the walking stick, a heavy and functional tool. Robb had used one like this to walk after he broke his legs as a boy, before he'd healed enough to recover his balance. While Ned wouldn't have claimed himself to have been crippled, it was a useful impression to give. No one would question why he wasn't in the North, if it appeared he could no longer ride out to war.

Jon Arryn had died on stairs such as this, he thought as he walked down towards the great and echoing space at the heart of the Crown. It was the first winter of the vast space and there had been great panic that it was leaking, until keen eyed observers had realised that the high roof actually had small clouds - little more than a thin mist - and that there was actually an occasional drizzle of rain. Just another wonder, and one that could make the floor a little hazardous if it wasn't carefully cleared of any ice that might form.

Still thinking of his foster father, Ned walked south-east around the hall and intercepted the Vale representatives as they exited the Falcon Tower. "Lysa," he greeted the red-headed dowager princess - the lines on her face gave her the appearance of being elder to his own wife although in fact the reverse was true. "Robert, Rennart. May I offer you my escort?"

Lysa managed a slight smile at the courtly manners Ned had dusted off from his childhood. "Your highness I would be glad to." She rested the fingers of her hand lightly upon his elbow. "Boys, greet your uncle."

Robert's namesake remained close by his mother, bowing politely but keeping her between him and Ned. His brother, younger by three years but no more than a finger's thickness the shorter, stepped around and looked fearlessly up at Ned. "Greetings, Prince Stark."

The boy's boldness reminded him of Crejon. "Greetings to you."

They walked down onto the floor and towards the dais where Robert's throne waited, still wearing his cloak. Summoned by the ending of the bells, hundreds of men and women stood around it, forming a rough circle. Before the throne stood knights and lords, most very old or very young. Their ladies and children - or grandchildren - were in more evidence. Behind the throne and symbolically in support of it, were the smallfolk - clerks, servants, soldiers. They too had brought their wives and children as witnesses.

Only the innermost line of the circle was reserved in any way. Ambassadors from the Free Cities and the greatest lords faced the Small Council and senior officers across the crown, divided only by the dais itself. Ned and Lysa were among the last to arrive and only shortly after they took their places, the royal party made their own entrance.

Stannis walked first, Alysanne on his arm. The dowager queen had set aside mourning colours for the occasion, although Ned suspected she'd return to them on the morrow. Losing her son not quite a year after her husband had struck her a heavy blow. Behind came Cassana, her aunts Aemma and Obara flanking her. The young queen wore white beneath a long cloak that would have dragged upon the ground if her sisters and cousins weren't holding the trailing edge off the floor.

Before the throne they broke ranks. Stannis stood to one side, the ladies to the other. Cassana dropped to one knee before it, bowing her head deeply.

"Who comes before the throne, beneath the Crown of Westeros?" challenged Stannis.

Cassana didn't raise her head. "I am Cassana of House Baratheon. I am the sister and daughter of kings. I am the eldest heir of my House."

The Lord Regent nodded but he seemed unimpressed. Then again, had Stannis ever been impressed? If so, he hid it well. Instead he turned to Alysanne. "Your grace, do you acknowledge Cassana as your daughter and the eldest heir of House Baratheon?"

"Lord Stannis, I am quite certain she is my firstborn child. And that... and with Eddard dead, she is Robert's eldest heir."

To this Stannis bowed deeply. Finally he turned towards the Small Council. "Grand Maester, do you account that Cassana Baratheon is of age and in all respects fit in mind and body to serve as our Queen?"

Maester Colemon stepped up onto the dais so he could be clearly seen. "The records are clear that Cassana Baratheon was birthed sixteen years and one day ago, shortly before sunset," he replied concisely. "As Grand Maester I can confirm her health in all respects."

"Thank you, Maester Colemon." Stannis waited as the elderly man backed down the steps and then dropped formally to one knee as Cassana rose to her full height - which really wasn't much less than her uncle's. "Your grace," he intoned. "I lay down my office as your regent. Pray take your throne."

Cassana stepped forwards to the throne. Her sisters stepped past her and tugged carefully upon the cloak that covered it. Ned found himself sad to think that he had been there when it was first laid upon the wooden chair. As Lyanne and Steffana drew it aside, Cassana pulled off her own cloak and laid it in place, the folds spilling across the dais, for it was cut far fuller than the previous one.

"My lords and ladies." She stood tall and proud before them. "Only after my lady mother was wed to my royal father was she graced with a crown and hailed as queen, for it is right and meet that she was wed first to him and only after that to the realm. Yet a ruling monarch must wed first their kingdom, as my father did before me."

Crownless, gowned in white, she swept the room before her. "Westeros has never before had a Queen Regnant, saving Rhaenyra Targaryen whose rule was more claim than substance. Yet I assure you all, that if I have not all the parts of my father I have most assuredly the heart and soul of a King of Andals, Rhoynar and First Men. And so, as he once asked some of you, I now ask in my own name: will you have me as your Queen and this as my throne?"

Ned raised his voice. "I will. Hail Cassana Baratheon, Queen of Westeros."

He thought his voice was probably a little drowned out, partly by the voices behind him and partly because the three Arryns had also spoken as he did, and while supportive, both Lysa and Robin had done so in quite shrill voices. Then again, with a disproportionate number of those present being women, Ned suspected that only a few of the older men would have been inclined to object.

No objections seemed to have drawn the attention of Stannis, at least. The former regent waited until his niece was seated and then poured a golden chain into her hands. The two exchanged fortunately brief remarks under their breath - something not going to the man's precious script? - and then Cassana spread it out to reveal that it was the Hand's chain of office, which she hung around Stannis' neck. He placed his hands between hers and gave his oath.

He was only the first, of course. Oberyn Martell for his brother. Robin Arryn, Ned himself and young Cerwyn Lannister representing the other princely houses. Kevan Lannister had brought his great-nephew and he was confirmed as regent as Jaime Lannister's death remained unconfirmed. Ned knew Kevan was a sensible man and in principle, until Cerwyn was of age it mattered little legally if he was heir or a prince already.

Other lords followed them, or more often their representatives. It was strange to have no less than five great Houses in the Reach but that was Cassana's work in some ways, so it was appropriate that she would be the first Baratheon ruler to receive their formal submission.

Cassana beckoned to Samwell Tarly and the squire walked forwards, carrying a small chest, which she accepted. "My lords, many have expected that I would wear the crown of my father, and that of other kings before him. It is a worthy crown, but I believe there is another that speaks more of my hopes for the future." She opened the casket and produced a crown wrought in the form of flowers and vines, holding it up so that all could see.

"I do not count my faith to be so deep as that of Baelor the Beloved," Cassana said clearly, giving Ned what he hoped was intended as reassurance. "Yet here, in these flowers and these vines, I see our hopes for spring. Let all the Seven Kingdoms look to me and know that winter may come, yet it also always passes. There will be a spring."


	41. Chapter 41

**Stannis XXII**

The chamber of the Small Council was quiet as Eddard Stark laid out a map and a drawing for all to see.

"My source isn't much of an artist," he admitted, pointing at the rough sketch of an implausibly large castle. "But I'm confident it's as accurate as he could manage. And as far as I can tell from the description it's built on top of the Night Fort."

"This castle, if these are doorways then this is larger than Storm's End." Stannis tapped the drawing. "How could they have brought so much stone into one place in so short a time? All our histories show that castle of this size takes a lifetime to build."

"It isn't made of stone, Prince Stannis." Ned folded his hands. "It's made of ice. So they had all the building material they needed."

Stannis leant back in his chair. "I have to wonder what the point was in there being a Wall in the first place."

"Whatever the reasons, they've been lost at some point in the thousands of years since it was first laid down," Cassana told him. "We should focus instead on what we can do about the Others. This can't be where they came from but at the same time, I can't imagine they'd make such an effort if this wasn't an important place for them. The question is, what can we do about it?"

Brynden Tully drew the picture over to him and studied it. "Well, that would be fun to siege. I doubt the dead need food so we wouldn't be able to starve them out. In fact, that far north in winter a besieging army would be the one concerned about food."

"That leaves forcing a breach and storming it," Cassana deduced. "The King's Men are the best siege engineers in Westeros, could they do that?"

The knight pursed his lips. "It's hard to say without a better idea of how it's defended. Honestly, if the lower sections are solid - or even mostly solid - then they'd have to break open the gates. Which may be possible, but how fast can they rebuild them?"

"And then there's the question of what to do inside." Stannis looked over at Ned. "Does your agent have any idea of the layout?"

Ned shook his head. "There's nowhere that looks down on it, so all he could see were the outerworks and the upper levels of some of the towers."

"It's still a remarkable feat to have gathered this information." Stannis suspected that Varys' smile directed at Stark was intended to irritate rather than ingratiate, since the northerner had already made his distaste for the Blackfyre clear. "Might I enquire as to your source? After all, with you leaving the capital we wouldn't wish to be deprived of further discoveries of this nature."

The prince looked to one side. "I'll pass on what I can."

Stannis couldn't help but rise to the bait, even knowing that Varys had made his remark with that intention. "That's less than forthcoming."

"My... source, if you will..." The Stark frowned. "It's a complicated matter, I'm not sure he'd talk to anyone else. If that becomes possible I'll let you know."

"You're being remarkably evasive," Cassana told him. "I've assumed so far that your source is entirely reliable..."

Stannis didn't quite miss the way that Stark's eyes flicked to Cassana's crown. Nor did Cassana. She reached up and lifted it off, placing it before her on the table. "Baelor Targaryen was notoriously pious - as much septon as king. I won't deny that I knew that when I chose it as my crown."

"He was a weak king, supported by his uncle as Hand. The smallfolk loved him, but the lords knew the truth. Between he and his cousin Aegon the Unworthy, they were dark years for the Targaryens."

"I doubt that many of my lords would be delighted by a strong queen. To that extent, the association serves my purposes." Cassana didn't release her hold on the crown. "But that doesn't concern you. It's the Faith."

Davos Seaworth looked the most uneasy with that. The captain of a ship was a long way from the peasants in the field but his humble origins meant that the Septons were larger and more respectable figures to him than they were to lords who were more familiar with the politics within - and without - that order. Not that there were no good and pious men and women among them, but... "Baelor wasn't known as a warrior."

"That's true. And I won't handle the Others as he handled the Dornish - that wasn't aimed at you, Prince Oberyn."

The Red Viper waved the remark off. "He isn't admired in our history. His brothers were my ancestor's enemies, but not men to take lightly. What you mean though is that Baelor wanted to convert the North and the Iron Isles to the Faith of the Seven."

The Queen nodded. "Prince Stark, do you think I'm a fool?"

"No, of course not!"

She smiled coolly and then placed her crown back on her head. "And now?"

"You're the same person."

"Exactly. My father set me an excellent example in many ways, but here I will follow my uncle's example. I place no faith in gods. I will place it in men, to see us through this night." She smiled slightly. "Now if we've devoted enough time to what I'm wearing, would I be right that your source of information is one that the Faith might disapprove of? Might even call witchcraft?"

"Something along those lines."

"Well I know nothing of such matters, Prince Stark. But if you attest on your honour that this is as true a word as if you had seen it yourself then I will take it as such and we can move on to considering how to defeat this castle of ice."

* * *

  
**Viserys XVIII**

"Say that again," Cassana all but hissed.

"You asked for my opinion," Viserys said with a calm he didn't feel. "And it's my opinion that that you shouldn't execute Melisandre of Asshai."

For a moment he thought Cassana would erupt out of her chair but with evident effort she instead leant back in it. "Are you somehow of the opinion that she's innocent of my brother's death?"

"As I understand it, she's either guilty of conspiring to kill Obara and accidentally killed Eddard or she had nothing to do with the entire mess and coincidentally stabbed Bronn in the chest. There's not really a lot of evidence for the second theory though." He tugged on his beard. "Neither endears her to me, but she might be more useful alive than dead."

"Useful or not, she killed my brother."

"It would set rather a bad precedent to let a regicide live," agreed Varys. "What use do you think she'd be? Even if she was inclined to help us, which seems unlikely."

"By all means list the experts in magic at our disposal. Most of the Maesters to have studied the subject have no experience as far as I know. What does that leave us to try to counter the Others and their magic? I don't recall any great progress made by Archmaester Marwyn."

Stannis tapped two fingers sharply on the table. "Mind your tone, Targaryen."

"Of course, my apologies to Lord Blackfyre."

The eunuch tittered. "I took no offense, Ser Viserys."

"My point is that we don't know what the Others might throw at us." Viserys turned back to Cassana. "As much as I'd like to see her head on a pike, I'd rather not find out too late that a Shadowbinder is exactly what we need to counter the Others' next move. We don't even know exactly why they've returned, but this is a woman who's devoted years to studying records of the last Long Night. Let's see what she knows first."

Cassana glared at him. "I don't trust her."

"If she proves false then I'd gladly take her head myself. Don't -" He paused, not quite biting back his next argument in time.

"Don't what?" The queen looked at him coldly. "Don't presume? Don't be hasty?"

"I was about to say 'don't you think your father would have wanted you to use every tool you have'?" He looked her in the eyes. "It was ill-thought of me."

Brynden Tully saw the way Cassana's eyebrows twitched and leaned over. "I believe you should absent yourself, Viserys."

"I believe you're right." He rose and bowed. "With your permission, your grace."

She pointed one hand at the door. "Go. No, one more thing."

Viserys looked at her questioningly.

"Your friend Bronn... his body is missing. Did you take it for burial?"

The Targaryen blinked. "No. I hadn't even heard that. Very strange."

She looked him over, sniffed and turned to her Hand. "It's better that you speak to that woman. If you find her convincing I'll defer her execution. If not, it seems Ser Viserys will be needing a new sword now that Dawn is on its way back to Starfall. Make sure he has one for the execution."

* * *

  
**Varys XIX**

Being Master of Whispers in the Crown of Westeros was a different experience from what he remembered of the years at the Red Keep. Not just in leadership - Varys had experienced similar changes with the transition from Aerys to Robert - but in the lack of secret passages.

Or at least knowing of them. When the Red Keep was completed by Maegor Targaryen, he'd executed the builders in order that no one could share its secrets. Many had been found over the years but no one could be sure that they knew them all - although Varys was sure he knew the lion's share. Robert Baratheon hadn't taken the same path - or if he had then he'd kept it a very good secret.

So far Varys hadn't found any passages, either from the Crown's past as the Dragonpit or newly built, which made it hard for him to come and go without being noticed. He'd even found one passage he remembered as linking the Red Keep to a brothel on the side of the Hill of Rhaenys, below the Crown, had been severed by the construction of drains and of the arena.

As a result he'd had to be creative in departing the Crown incognito, adopting a disguise and changing it several times as he crossed the city. Gathering the material for this wasn't all that difficult but it took him back to when he was younger and doing this for his own sake. Then again, wasn't that still the case?

It didn't surprise him to see Thoros of Myr standing on the quay, next to a band of men who looked as if they'd walked out of the slums. Some weren't even armed with more than clubs or armoured in more than soft leather. If they had carved stars into their foreheads they'd fit in with the more radical of the Faith of the Seven's adherents.

"I take it your preaching has been rewarded," he said pleasantly as he approached, adjusting his hat. It was a very nice hat and went with the coat he wore, one of those commonly used by royal messengers. Alas, his bald head was such an identifying factor that he needed to keep it shaved in his day to day life to avoid being recognised when he was disguised and covering it.

The red priest started and then his eyes narrowed in recognition. The man was perceptive enough when sober. "My old friend," he said softly. "Have you come to join us in our crusade against the Other?"

"For now, I believe I can offer more to the cause from here." Varys pulled a small pouch and handed it over to Thoros. "Gold, for your travelling expenses." He added a scroll. "And Queen Cassana signed a general pardon for the men accompanying you north, contingent on no one deserting you before you reach the North."

Thoros accepted the donations with a smile. "Please express my gratitude, should you have the opportunity."

"I'll be sure to do so." Varys let his gaze flicker to Thoros' serjeant. The man had a shaven scalp, covered by tattoos and wore an eyepatch and scarf. The spymaster let the corners of his lips curve upwards. "It's important that everyone receive their due rewards. Ravens have been sent ahead to White Harbor to ensure provision is made for you to join the armies further north."

The priest followed Varys' eye line and shrugged. "I don't feel our part in this has ended."

"I see." He turned to go and then paused. "It occurs to me that I owed Bronn a considerable amount of money. Since he's dead I can't pay him, did he happen to mention any relatives who might be his heir."

"Ah." The priest considered. "Well, he just so happens to have a..."

"A distant cousin who is also his nearest kinsman?"

"Yes! That's it exactly!"

"It wouldn't happen to be your serjeant, would it?"

That question had come from behind them and they turned to see a horrifically burned face looking at them. "Clegane."

"Don't sound so surprised," the Seneschal grunted. "Not much happens in King's Landing that I don't learn of these days." He had one hand casually on the hilt of his sword. "It made sense that one of you three would lead me to whoever had Bronn's body. I'm almost surprised the Targaryen isn't a part of this."

The serjeant was clearly on the brink of drawing his own blade. "It's a lot of bother to go to for a dead body," he said in a hoarse voice.

"It is. Why make off with a body... unless he wasn't dead?" Clegane's lips twisted and it took a moment for Varys to realise that the scarred face was smiling. "So, a cousin you claimed? Didn't your sellsword have distinctive scars around the throat?"

"Did he?" the serjeant asked. "I don't remember that." He removed his scarf, revealing a neck with no such scars.

"Bronn's throat was almost slit in the North," Thoros explained. "As you can see, his cousin Peytr has no such scars."

Sandor Clegane stared at Serjeant Peytr and then pushed closer grabbed his chin and pushed his jaw to one side and then the other, checking for scar tissue. With a disgusted grunt he released the man.

"You know usually when someone gets this close to me, one of us is paying for it."

The Seneschal spat and tossed him a copper. "It's all you're worth."

Varys and Thoros fought back the urge to exhale in relief as the man left. Finding someone who looked enough like Bronn to act as a decoy hadn't been half as hard as convincing Petyr to adopt the over-done disguise. Still, it had at least diverted Clegane from checking their baggage, where Bronn was hidden in a barrel.

"So how is Ser Viserys, Lord Blackfyre?"

"I think he's still finding his feet in the court. He's like a fresh wind bringing unfortunate facts to the attention of our new Queen."

"That badly?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll manage. And rather him than me."

* * *

  
**Ned XXII**

The largest lake in Westeros, the Gods Eye might as well have been a inland sea at the eastern end of the Riverlands. There were high hills that divided it from the Trident and given the weather, some of the paths through them were snowed in while the southern approach was easier. For all the time expended in the road to King's Landing, at least a third of that journey would have been needed to go past the hills, or so Ned estimated.

There was a village on the eastern shore. Howland Reed had told Ned that the inn there was a safe place to stable his horse and that the boatmen would take him across the waters. How the crannogman had known this hadn't been stated although Ned assumed that the little man had visited the Isle of Faces himself once. His first meeting with Howland had been only a little way north of the lake after all, at the half-ruined castle of Harrenhal.

The village seemed homey to the Stark as he rode in with his small escort. It wasn't until he dismounted that he realised that the simple stone houses reminded him more of those outside Winterfell than of any he had seen beneath the Neck. There was no sept standing beside the small square and although the grove of trees between village and water had none of the distinctive white bark of weirwood, still they were old trees and he wouldn't be surprised if the villagers considered it to be a godswood.

Or perhaps not. Howland had said their boats could cross the lake after all.

The innkeeper was a stout man, wearing a thick leather apron over warm woollens. "Winter has come, Lord Stark."

"Prince Stark," Jory corrected him proudly.

Ned gestured for calm. "Many men have many titles."

"Aye. My inn will be proud to host the Magnar of Winter's men while he is on the Isle."

"Magnar?"

"Oldtongue," Ned explained. "It means lord." He looked out at the water. "Can I get a boat today, out to the Isle?"

"Of course!"

"Your highness, it's past noon and the sun's low."

Jory wasn't wrong, but now Ned was in sight of the lake he felt the urge to press on as soon as possible. He could almost convince himself that the island was in view along the horizon although the lake was almost thirty leagues across. "Would it be possible?"

The innkeeper bowed. "I will speak to the boatmen, Magnar. We have prepared a warm meal. Please go within. Our stable is prepared for your horses."

Jory frowned. "How did you know we were coming?"

"We did not know that someone would come." The innkeeper turned away towards the shore. "We merely hoped."

The inn's main room was warm - or at least as warm could be expected at this season - and the meal was a thick and rich stew with bread and cheese. The ale provided was rich and fruity, well worth the silver coins that Ned's men paid for it.

Ned was tempted by the prospect of finding out if the rooms above were as comfortable but as the innkeeper returned with two men he pushed his chair back, giving them a questioning look.

"These men will be fishing through the night, Magnar." The innkeeper bowed. "If you leave now, they expect to be able to beach on the Isle of Faces in the morning."

Jory also stood. "If you insist on going, how many men can go on the boat?"

The innkeeper looked at the men and then back to Ned. "Just one."

Ned nodded. "Jory, stay with the men. I'll take -"

"My apologies, Magnar." The innkeeper gave him an uneasy look. "When I say one, I mean..."

"Just me." Ned sighed.

Jory shook his head. "You can't go alone?"

"It seems I must. It won't be the first small boat I've taken. I had to cross the Bite in a fishing boat during Robert's War, after all."

As the sun set ahead of the fishing boat, Ned was thinking back to that voyage again - reminded again how much he hated to travel by small boats. For some reason ships such as those he'd travelled on due to the Greyjoy Rebellion didn't trigger it, but a boat as small as this made his stomach turn. Based on past experience he made for the leeward side of the ship.

"Not a good sailor, magnar?" asked one of the fishermen.

"No." He looked at the horizon, now vanishing into the dusk. "I'll try to keep myself from dirtying your decks."

"Appreciated," the man grunted and went back to his deck. Ned couldn't blame the men for being short-spoken. They had work to do and no doubt families depending on the fish they brought back to eke out foodstocks through the winter. He'd left gold with the innkeeper to feed his men while he was away but the villagers couldn't eat coins.

A swell caught the boat and Ned focused on not losing the stew he'd eaten.

By the time the dawn broke, he'd failed in that but he'd at least managed to avoid staining his clothes too much. He'd not slept, although if he could have he would. The morning light showed trees ahead of them, certainly an island. As more light broke past the clouds, he saw that the trees had red leaves and white bark. "The Isle of Faces."

"We're closer than I expected," the fisherman told him. The two men had been wrestling with nets for half the night, an effort that Ned felt would daunt most of the fighting men he knew. The result was baskets half-full of fish in the centre of the cramped little boat.

As the island swelled before them, Ned saw there was a small dock, carved from weirwood. He had to wonder how old it was - weirwood wouldn't rot as most wood did. The two boatmen placed rope coils off the side of their boat before they came alongside and caught hold of posts. Ned tried to open his coin pouch before leaving the ship.

"Nay," the older man said. "Do that which you came here for Magnar. That will pay all."

Ned paused, nodded and then pulled himself onto the dock. He'd thrust his walking stick through his belt and now he removed it and leant upon it. Hopefully the greenmen who Howland told him tended the trees here would have somewhere for him to sit, or perhaps to sleep.

No one waited at the dock but there was an evident path. Ned followed it patiently. Somewhere there would be someone he could make himself known to. Perhaps someone who had answers to his questions about his connection to the wolves. About Sansa and perhaps even the Others. But if not, then someone with a place he could sleep would suffice.

Clouds darkened the sky as he walked and before long rain began to drizzle through the tree branches. It was enough to cause a rustling and this masked the sound of movement until Ned was caught quite off guard when a circle of men stepped out from concealment around him. None appeared to be armed but their cloaks, interwoven with red leaves, blended into the background.

"Magnar of Winter," one greeted him.

Ned nodded. "Howland Reed advised I come here."

"For counsel?"

"Yes. There are things I don't understand."

"Much has been lost," another of the men said quietly. "Blood endures, but fire consumes."

"I'm more concerned about ice consuming. My daughter is held, somewhere in the north - perhaps in a keep where the Wall once stood. I believe the Others are using her somehow."

There was a moment of silence and then the first of the greenmen sighed. "Once we could have given you counsel of events beyond the Wall. Yet now many voices are silenced and others are gone to the East. We had hopes of another but..."

"Blood will tell."

Ned couldn't tell who had spoken but he got the impression that few disagreed with the remark. "Is that good? Or bad?"

"It simply is." One of the men stepped forward. "Your daughter's fate is of concern to us. Come and sit. We will answer your questions as well as we may."


	42. Chapter 42

**Alliser VI**

After months of preparations for an army of wights to march south towards the forts, it somehow didn't shock Alliser Thorne that the actual attack came from within. Surprised, yes, otherwise he'd have been better prepared. But not shocked. He rolled out of bed and jammed his feet into his boots hastily. So the Others had come up with some other surprise, damn them.

The sound that had woken him was a medley of men shouting and horses whinnying. Shouldering his door open - it tended to stick, like most of the fort it was built of green wood - he saw the stables were in chaos, men trying to calm their horses.

They weren't making much progress and as Alliser took the scene in, one of the destriers reared and one flailing hoof caught a man in the skull. An axe would have done less damage and the man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

With an oath, Alliser ran down the rickety stairs from his lodging and seized the shoulder of the first member of the Watch he could see. "What's gotten into them?"

"I dunno, Ser. Uh, Lord Commander. Ser Graeme thought some beast might have broken into the stables and tried to force his way in with three men." The man's face paled. "The horses trampled him to paste, Ser. It's unnatural."

Grim certainty descended on Alliser. "You're right. Go fetch archers."

"Archers?"

"We've no choice." Every one of the horses was twice the size and strength of a man. If they kept this up they'd kill more men and probably wreck the fort into the bargain. There was nothing he could do but contain this and hope it wasn't widespread. "Perhaps the touch of dragonglass will calm them."

Drawing his dagger, Alliser moved in on the nearest of the horses. The gelding turned towards him, lips pulled back from its teeth. Horses might not be carnivorous but their teeth still had considerable strength behind them. Alliser feinted moving in from the left and then wheeled right as the horse turned and reared up. Reaching out he slashed forward with his dagger, scraping the horse's shoulder and then scrambling back.

The horse screamed and Alliser wiped his blade clean automatically as he watched for any sign that the horse was calming down. Either the dragonglass did nothing or the injury put the horse into a panicky state anyway. Then again, it wasn't trying to run away and in his experience, injured horses tend to try to do that - not to fight back.

Seeing the horse's eyes fixing upon him, Alliser ran for the steps up to his quarters, hoping he could make it to the door there before the gelding picked up any speed. As it happened, he couldn't although his escape was rather complicated since the horse smashed into the steps right as he reached the top. The impact sent him flying back to crash against the wall. Rolling over he saw the horse's hooves above him and desperately rolled aside before they crashed down on him.

There was the whistle of an arrow and the horse screamed in pain. Getting his feet under him, Alliser leapt up and drove his dagger - which he'd somehow not lost in the scramble - into its throat, dragging the blade across the arteries and spilling the horse's blood across his face.

"Ser Alliser, are you alright?"

He wiped his eyes clear and saw the Night's Watchman he'd sent for aid lowering his bow. Behind him a dozen more archers were standing ready, apparently unwilling to act without instructions. "Kill any horse that doesn't settle down," he ordered flatly. It would make him no friends among the knights and other men who owned the horses but he didn't think he had much chance of befriending most of them anyway.

The stableyard was quickly silenced as the sound of bowstrings and arrows replaced angry whinnying. Alliser took a careful count as the men worked. More than twenty deaths - stablehands as well as the first men to respond - and that wasn't the worst of it. Not a single horse had been left unaffected.

Alliser shook his head. This was going to be bad. "Get those bodies burned," he ordered harshly. "Get me the Maester and the latest list of our supplies. I need to send ravens."

"You think this is happening elsewhere?"

"I hope not." He put his hands on his hips. "Get moving you lazy bastards."

With luck the Others had just been trying their hand and would consider the small number of deaths insufficient to repeat this. If this was some sort of concerted effort...

The look on Maester Willem's face made it clear that his hopes were as fruitless as usual. "A raven from the Roadfort," he announced. "Their horses went wild and broke out of the stockade for the supply camps."

"Gods damn it," Alliser hissed. No horses could be trusted now and without them the carts and sleds that supplying the forts absolutely depended upon were useless. At a stroke the forts had become untenable and the defenders of the North would have to retreat towards the keeps with their granaries and storehouses.

By chance or design the Others had managed to severely weaken the defences keeping them out of the bulk of the North.

"I need to work out how many men we can feed for a year with the food on hand," he said calmly. "Then I need a working party to start consolidating our defenses around leaving only that many people here. The rest of the garrison will need to march south towards Longlake and the Kingsroad."

* * *

  
**Sansa VIII**

As the horses were slaughtered, Sansa fled the wight and lost herself in the Wolfswood. She had learned to feel the cord - practically a leash - that they used to find her and to bring her back to the throne. Paradoxically it gave her a degree of freedom - the Wights were sure they could bring her back at need so they felt no need to keep her under supervision at all times.

It wasn't a literal cord, of course. After all, this wasn't her literal body. She'd tried picking up a knife and found herself unable to move it. Had she been able to, she would have severed the silvery light that linked her back to the White Keep - or possibly cut open the veins of her wrists.

Finding a grove of weirwood trees, their white trunks seeming to rise seamlessly out of the snow covering their roots, Sansa fell to her knees and began to pray to the Old Gods for salvation.

"Have you ever had them reply?" asked a quiet voice from behind her.

Sansa squeaked in fright and turned to see a boy perhaps the age of her youngest brother looking at her from just outside the grove. He had a solemn expression and was dressed finely in silks and fine velvets. "You can see me?"

The boy pouted. "You should answer me first," he said haughtily. "I'm a prince."

"So is my father," she snapped. "But he has better manners."

"You still haven't told me. Do the gods answer you?"

Sansa shook he head. "No, not that I've noticed."

"Then why are you praying?"

"Well, there's always a first time..." And what else was she left with? "Who are you?"

"Prince Robert Arryn of the Vale." The haughtiness slipped off his face. "Everyone calls me Robin."

Sansa leant against the weirwood. "I'm your cousin then, Sansa Stark. My mother is your mother's sister."

"And your father was Robert's Hand after my father." He nodded confidently. "The other Robert, the old king, not me."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Robin, but what are you doing out here in the woods?"

"Sometimes when I sleep on father's throne I can fly."

He seemed entirely serious and it took Sansa a moment to remember that when she first sat upon the throne the lord of the Others had told her to fly. "You mean... the way I am?"

"I suppose."

She thought back to the throne of wood and ice that she'd been sat upon by the Others. "What's your father's throne like?"

"It's very old," the boy told her. "It's made of white wood and it's rooted into the floor like a tree. When I'm sitting in it I can see the Moon Door. If it's open I can see all the way across the Vale without leaving the throne."

Weirwood? "Do you know where the roots go?"

He nodded, lank dark hair flying. "Rennart found them in a chamber beneath the throneroom. There's another throne there, one of black stone. We asked father why there was another throne and he said it was a seastone chair. It's so cold that Rennart says the roots of fathers throne have frozen to the other one."

"Father told me about the Eyrie. He said it was cold in the winters, so cold that everyone left the castle and moved down to the bottom of the mountain."

Her cousin shrugged. "We aren't. Mother wants us to stay safe in the Eyrie. Father wanted to send us away to the south but after he fell, we didn't have to. I'm glad, I can fly anywhere I want so long as I have the throne."

* * *

  
**Obara X**

In her dream, Obara was a child and she sat on the edge of one of the ponds in the Water Garden, her feet in the cooling water. She thought she might be recalling a moment of her youth, after her father had taken her away from Oldtown. Then again, she thought she could see Dorie past one of the shrubs so perhaps not.

When she looked up, Prince Doran was sitting on the far side of the pond, a goblet of chilled wine in his hands. "I love the warmth of our home," he told her and then sipped from his wine. "But there is also a place for cold in the world."

"Is this one of those metaphors I'm supposed to work out for myself? Because I'm not good with those."

"Yes, I recall your tutor's complaints." The prince stretched out his legs and sighed. "Enjoy being young and healthy while you can. My point is, even though we enjoy summer we shouldn't reject winter. It's a natural cycle and when either is disrupted, problems result."

"It's not exactly news that a long winter is a problem. I think King Robert made that more than clear."

"Ah, but did you consider that the long summer was also a problem?"

Obara's brow furrowed. "I don't see a specific reason but I suppose I can see the logic."

"The Others are far from the only power to consider." Doran leant back. "I suspect... and this is just a theory... that one of these other powers is responsible for the long summer and that the Others have moved to counter this. Westeros - if I'm right - is simply in their way."

"Their way to what? We didn't cause the summer. And it's not as if there's anything south of us."

"I don't necessarily mean their physical path. More that... What would you associate the Others with?"

"Ice," she said immediately. "...and death?"

Doran nodded. "Yes. They possess significant magics in both areas. Enough to reshape the Wall entirely and to raise armies of the dead. But now they've begun to take control of animals, and that isn't something spoken of in the legends... at least not the legends of the Others."

This wasn't Obara's first conversation on this topic and, while she'd never claimed to be a scholar by inclination, the tales of the Age of Heroes had been very much in circulation of late. The printers in King's Landing were selling volumes of the collected tales of antiquity almost as fast as they could print and bind the books. "You mean warging."

"Yes. For whatever reason, I think the Others want to develop the... tools, let's say... for magics they haven't previously shown any affinity for. I don't know if the Children of the Forest still exist, but one imagines they'd be targets for their own lore. And, of course, much of that was shared with the First Men. Bloodlines may have intermingled and lore lost over the centuries, but some of the news to arrive in Pentos suggests that the Free Folk are continuing such practises in Essos, much to the distress of their new neighbours."

She considered that, kicking her feet in the water. "I don't see how smashing the Wall and marching armies around is going to gain them magic."

"It isn't necessarily their entire goal, I don't claim to completely understand them. However, I've enquired of Eddard Stark and he tells me he met his daughter in the North, doing something approximating dreamwalking or warging. It seems likely she was captured after the Wall fell and that the Others are cultivating her talents."

"Starks..." Obara frowned. "So there's something to the Isle of Faces. I assume that you were able to speak to him because of that."

"Yes. I have some hopes that between us we can counter the Others before they can assemble new armies and push further south."

"They have the initiative," she realised. "All we're doing right now is countering - or failing to counter - their moves. We can't win unless we can strike back against them."

"Correct. My hope is that this White Keep that Stark discovered will be vulnerable to Daenerys Targaryen's dragons. Harrenhal was, so it wouldn't be unprecedented."

"It isn't just Targaryen dragons. It's Selmy and Sand."

"I gather that Duncan Selmy is close to Viserys Targaryen so it may be argued that it would be wise of the Baratheons to mend fences with Nymeria. Be so good as to encourage her to accept such overtures. Your marriage to Renly wasn't a disaster and functionally Dorne can't survive without the rest of Westeros. House Baratheon needs us and we need them. Politically it makes sense."

"Nymeria won't like that."

"Nymeria would be well advised to recall that Robert Baratheon gave only judicous second chances and rarely third chances. His daughter is likely to follow that example."

* * *

  
**Stannis XXIII**

"They're either wiser in war than we considered or absurdly fortunate." Oberyn Martell ran one finger along the line of forts that stretched from the Wolfswood to the Bay of Seals. "We've the supplies for a token force to hold out in the forts but without more supplies we can't march north to this White Keep and without horses there's no way to move the supplies needed."

"Oxen perhaps?" suggested Brynden Tully.

"And if the Others can do the same to them?" asked Cassana drily from her seat. "We must hope that dragons can't be influenced in the same way or we have a very great problem."

Oberyn drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "I'm inclined to think we may not have to be too concerned with that. The Others remain very much creatures of ice and dragons are diametrically opposed to them with their fire associations. I think it would be very difficult for them to influence a dragon."

"It's an assumption." Cassana leant back in her chair. "We need a counter and as little as I like it... you were right, Viserys. We need someone versed in magic."

"I wish I was wrong. Failing that, I wish we had someone else."

"You can't trust the woman," Stannis told them. "You saw how swiftly she turned from supporting Aegon to claiming she thought I was her saviour."

"Our alternative is Archmaester Marwyn."

"Marwyn's a good man." Oberyn gave Cassana a challenging look.

"I agree. But one of the reasons I agree is that he has the decency to admit half of what he does is guesswork." The Queen looked back to her uncle. "Find someone else. Varys can help you perhaps. Until then I see no better choice than to use Melisandre of Asshai."

Stannis ground his teeth. "You want her out of the cell then?"

His niece shook her head. "Only if she proves herself. A little motivation for her."

"Viserys, this was your idea. You can deal with her."

The Targaryen tilted his head. "By all means. If I may offer your absence as a stick... telling her that her 'Azor Ahai' feels she can contribute nothing may persuade her to prove otherwise."

"Whatever works. In the meanwhile we need to do something about the armies in the North. Fortunately most of the smallfolk have already withdrawn to winter quarters around their lords' keeps but levies are already having to be marched south before they starve. If we weren't burning the dead we might have already given the wights another army."

"We're already supplying Karhold by ship," Ser Davos offered. "We can send smaller ships up the Last River and the Weeping Rivers, at least until that ices over. That should be enough to maintain some of the forts but we probably can't support the Last Hearth."

"From all accounts, Lord Umber is likely to be stubborn. If he insists then let him hold the Hearth itself with garrison and all the supplies still available, but the outlying forts around his lands will have to be released." Stannis looked at the map. "Long Lake isn't tenable, what does Lady Longstark have to say."

"Most of the smallfolk were sent south to Winterfell after King Robert's death." Samwell Tarly reached across the map and indicated the counters marking forts. "Between the Kingsroad and the White Knife there are two routes we can withdraw along but there are no other major strongholds or granaries between Long Lake and Winterfell."

"The ground has no inherent value. We can retake it in the spring," Stannis told him. "The western fleet can support Bear Island, Deepwood Motte and the other coastal lords. That leaves the possibility of the Others sending forces down to Torrhen's Square and Barristan's Holdfast."

"It's a long way for them to go, but we can position levies to protect both and the rivers that cut through the Rills should make it possible to feed armies there."

Cassana nodded. "The lords of Dorne and the Westerlands carried the bulk of the fighting under my father. Concentrate them there and let the Reach lords support Winterfell and the lands between them and the Hornwood. And invite any lord in the north to send their smallfolk south on supply ships. We need to cut the number of mouths north of the Neck and I'd rather we were feeding them here than the Others using them as soldiers."


	43. Chapter 43

**Varys XX**

"The long summer..." Varys leant back in his chair and studied Obara Baratheon. "An interesting theory, although the seasons are a mystery that have kept generations of scholars baffled on both sides of the Narrow Sea."

She nodded. "I appreciate the difficulty of the question."

"Well we can apply a reasonable amount of logic. Whatever the cause, it's unlikely to predate the start of last winter or to be more recent than four or five years through the long summer. Seventeen to nine years ago, in other words."

He saw her shake her head. "It's not much of a start. Eight years, anywhere in the world."

"Whatever changed must have been the same for centuries. Since the Age of Heroes, however long ago that was."

"Back before the Rhoynar crossed the Narrow Sea, or the Andals. Perhaps as far back as the Valyrians. Could it be that this is a delayed response to the fall of the Freehold?"

Varys considered and then shook his head. "It hardly seems likely that it would take four centuries for something like that to have such a profound effect. Still, it's worth considering that the Valyrians changed much of Essos. There are relatively few relics from before their era and I would assume the same here."

"You could be right. King's Landing is only a few centuries old. Sunspear is older although even that isn't so ancient as the last time the Others were encountered."

"Not as we know it, of course." The eunuch rose and went to a bookshelf, pulling down a recently printed account of the legends of the First Men. "Winterfell is said to be the work of Brandon the Builder, as well as Storm's End."

"I don't recally any great changes to either over the last few years."

"Hmm. Nor I." He leafed through the book. "Highgarden and Riverrun are of more recent construction, or so it's claimed. Casterly Rock though... and Oldtown is said to predate the Andals."

"We may as well assume that the Daynes' keep at Starfall is just as old, to judge by their ancient wars." Obara rubbed her chin. "Of all the great castles of Westeros I would..."

"You would?"

"What does that book say about Pyke?"

Varys turned to the proper chapter. "It's certainly old. But why... ah, King Robert broke one of the towers didn't he? The castle was badly damaged and rebuilt centuries ago after much of the land it was built upon broke away into spires though, so taking down one part of Pyke wouldn't seem to add so much."

"That might depend what. The Kings of the Iron Isles ruled from the same Seastone Chair, right from the first lord of Pyke to the Hoares."

"Yes, and the Greyjoys kept it. Made entirely of a blackstone rarely found anywhere in the known world. Was that in the tower that was felled?"

"I don't know," Obara admitted. "But I think I recall that Volantis was said to have walls of the same kind of stone."

"The walls of the inner city, rather. But yes. And it's an unsettling material. Whether a mere chair could have that effect I wouldn't care to guess but it's not impossible that it might have some significance. We can surely find some veteran of the Rebellion to know what came of it. Even if it isn't the cause of the summer it may have some use."

"Does anything else spring to mind?"

He frowned, thinking. "There is... it's nothing I've seen myself but it's said that beyond the Dothraki Sea, on the far side of the great empire of Yi Ti, five forts of black stone have guard the approaches to place known as the Grey Wastes ever since the last Long Night." Varys thumbed through the book and set it aside. "Unfortunately this only discusses Westeros."

"And Tyrion Lannister is away in the Summer Isles. It's not as if we can enquire of him."

"His uncle, Ser Gerion, is almost as well travelled." He rubbed his chin. "And then there is Melisandre. Asshai stands to the east of Yi Ti."

"I wish that woman had been put to death."

"I am quite surprised she hasn't been." And tempted to do something about it, were he to be honest. The world would be a cleaner, safer place without her ilk. But then, that would also require getting rid of the Others. A work in progress he supposed. "Ser Gerion is in the North of course, but I can send a raven."

"I'll spare the Hand's jaw and speak to Melisandre. If he keeps scowling like that the wind will change and he'll be stuck with that expression forever."

Varys considered. "Are you sure that that hasn't happened already?"

* * *

  
**Sansa IX**

Speaking to Robin Arryn had encouraged Sansa to take more advantage of the moments of freedom she had. Every long night the wights would drag her across the North, witnessing and enabling them to use dumb animals as their soldiers against the armies of the men. The days, short as they were, she was less constrained.

She saw Winterfell again and wept when her mother, thinner than Sansa remembered, could not hear her voice. She thought Crejon might have heard something, he would often pause as she spoke to him, but he never responded. Then again, it was hard to say - Jon was said to be as quiet as her father had been at that age.

"Is this your home?"

Sansa turned and saw Robin sitting on one of the walls, kicking his legs. "Yes." She pointed. "That's the great hall. And my chamber is up in that tower, although it looks the other way."

Robin pushed off the wall and with one flickering step he was standing next to her. "It's larger than the Eyrie. But it looks older and I don't think the view is as grand."

"Well, the Eyrie was built by the Andals," she reminded him. "So it isn't as old as Winterfell. These walls were first built by Brandon the Builder."

"Would you like to see my home?" the boy asked her. "I could show you Rennart and mother, even if they wouldn't see you. And we could look out of the Moon Door together."

Sansa forced a smile. "I'd like that, but it grows late and the Others will take me back soon."

He shivered. "Why do you do as they say?"

"I can't stop them," she said and wondered if it was truth. She'd tried simply to refuse and they would simply drag her to where they wanted. Could she fight back? "They have my body on the throne, bound to it in ice."

"If they tried to make me do that," Robin said, face solemn, "I would fling them from the Moon Door and see if they could fly without me to be their wings."

She gulped. "I would like to see that but I wouldn't want the Others in your home." Or mine. "Perhaps you can take me to the Eyrie, next time we meet?"

"I will," he assured her and kissed her cheek like the cousin he was, before backing away.

Once he was out of sight, Sansa walked towards the crypts. At the far end of them, among her most recent ancestors, she checked the walls for signs another tomb was being prepared. None were, so she could take comfort that the rest of her family should still be alive. Her grandfather's statue marked his tomb and there were only two beyond it. Normally, only the Lords of Winterfell had their tombs marked in this way but Sansa's father had broken the tradition when he brought the bones of his brother and father home.

Her uncle Benjen's tomb was empty but a statue had been carved anyway for him. Sansa touched the statue's hand. She thought he'd been carved to appear younger than he hd been when she last saw him. "I'm sorry, uncle. I know they killed you but there isn't anything I can do about them."

Isn't there?

Had someone said that? She turned and looked at the statue behind her. Brandon Stark had died before Benjen of course. When her father had lived in King's Landing, he had taken her to the Red Keep and shown her the place. Robb had been there - and the king that her brother was named for and his older children. After hearing how Aerys the Mad had burned her grandfather to death and how Brandon had strangled himself trying to reach and rescue his father... Sansa had had nightmares and mother had been furious. If Daenerys Targaryen hadn't broken into tears at the tale, Sansa didn't think she would have ever spoken to the girl again.

Somehow it had all been made worse when Viserys, who had been paler than usual, had pointed up at a balcony overlooking the yard and simply said that he'd watched from it.

Brandon had been captive too, hadn't he? The girl crossed the crypt and studied the face. He was handsome, with much the same long face that Sansa shared with her father. Though his expression was suitably sober, Sansa's mother had told her that he was called the Laughing Wolf and that had Aunt Lyanna not been stolen away by Rhaegar Targaryen, she would have wed Brandon and not Sansa's father.

It was a strange thought to think that this statue marked someone who might have been her father. "What should I do? Struggling against Aerys got you killed. If I fight back against the Others they'll..." Wait... they needed her, to use if nothing else. Did they have other captives? She'd never seen any.

"If they kill me then they can't use me. They can hurt me but if they kill me then at least they can't make animals attack people any more."

Sansa squared her shoulders. "I'll have to be brave about being hurt." She remembered how ashamed Robb had been of his tears in the first few days after he'd broken his legs. King Robert, the great warrior he'd heard of all their lives, had been there to see them too. But the king had been matter of fact about it.

Pain is just our body's way of telling us 'don't do that again, stupid', he'd told them. And courage is saying 'but I need to do it anyway'. Not want to do it, need to.

"I need to find courage," she said in the dark.

There was a soft woof and she stared at the large direwolf that had entered the crypts and was staring at her. Its jaws dropped open, baring teeth. "There are worse places to look for it, Sansa," the direwolf told her in her father's voice.

* * *

  
**Ned XXIII**

Sansa seemed to have grown little since he saw her leave for Queenscrown. She might be a little taller or perhaps just thinner. Even after months, Ned still found a wolf's perceptions to be be different from his own. "We didn't manage to speak much last time we met," he said gently. "Can we do so now?"

Tears welled in his daughter's eyes and she flung her arms around the direwolf's neck, hugging it. "Father!"

Ned regretted that he didn't have arms to put around Sansa but he did the best he could, rubbing the furry side of Mama Wolf's face against the girl's. He wasn't overly pleased with the name that Howlen had given the matriarch of the direwolf pack, but it was at least fairly accurate.

"They will likely call me back as the sun sets," she told him, kneeling before him. "Are you..."

"I am learning to warg, as Lord Reed calls it. Old blood in our veins, Sansa. Perhaps your brothers as well although I'd prefer they do not need to learn to use it."

She nodded. "It's why the Others came for me. They sent Prince Renly... the gates were opened for him and..."

Ned growled deep in his throat. "There will be a reckoning," he promised. "Your cousins?"

"Dead," she said quietly. "The tower fell... they only took Aunt Cersei and I."

"Cersei lives? Her brother Jaime rode north after her."

Sansa wiped her eyes. "I know. He's dead, father. And they had him strangle her when they found she was only a Stark by marriage. I don't think they understand us very well." Her eyes went wide. "They're calling me."

"Refuse, stay here!"

"It's not that sort of call. Father, talk to Robin Arryn!"

Ned felt her arms pulling against Mama Wolf's neck. "Can you return here?"

"I'll -"

In the blink of an eye his daughter was gone and Ned threw back his head and howled in frustration. Only when he heard feet on the stone floor did he lower his head.

Howlen was holding a torch up above his head. "Mama Wolf? Why are you in the crypts?" His youngest son had seen seven namedays now and Ned ached at the the thought he'd likely miss another.

"It's nothing son," he said, knowing that the boy would hear nothing but a bark. Walking forward he rubbed the direwolf's nose against Howlen's and then relaxed until the link broke.

At first he'd been cautious of doing that - leaving a giant predator around his family - but either out of some affinity in their Stark ancestry or just familiarity the direwolves seemed to treat his packmates as their family... his family as their packmates, he meant. Without opening his eyes he shook his head. Too much time as a direwolf perhaps?

Robin Arryn... Ned didn't remember much of his wife's elder nephew. The young prince of the Vale had been at court with his father a time or two at the same time as Ned but for the most part their paths hadn't crossed. Rumour had it that he was a sickly boy and that Lysa doted upon him while Jon had favoured their second son Rennart. Certainly none of the direwolves were anywhere near the Vale, much less inside the Eyrie.

With a wrench he forced his eyes, breaking the trance. It was harder every time.

"Magnar." One of the green men had been watching him and he moved to help Ned up from where he'd been lying among the roots of one of the Weirwood. "Are you well?"

"Aye." Ned rubbed his face with the fingers of his one hand. "Do you have paper? I need to send a message to my men and I want to write it before the moon rises and I can speak to Doran."

The greenman shrugged at the mention of the Dornish prince. There was little sympathy between his order and the Rhoynarian sorcerer. "You journeyed far, Magnar. You should also rest. You are... unpractised."

"We have little time for me to gain that practise." Ned looked around at the trees. How many of his ancestors had come here and done this. How had the tradition been lost? "Paper and ink?"

"I don't think we have any," the man admitted. "Can one of us deliver your words?"

"I want to give them a letter to take to my wife. I've news of our daughter."

* * *

  
**Viserys XIX**

Of all the guests Viserys had expected to drop by, Obara Baratheon wasn't a name he had ever considered. While he and Renly were of a similar age he wouldn't have said that they were particularly close and he'd been in Essos when Renly wed Oberyn Martell's natural daughter. "I have some wine and some bread," he offered, ushering her to the table of his chambers and offering her a chair that backed onto the tall window. Eddard Stark had offered him the use of rooms in the Wolf Tower but instead he'd found himself back in the room he'd lived in after the Greyjoy Rebellion. "But I don't keep much food here."

"I'd imagine not." She was wearing leathers, furs and woollens rather than the Dornish clothes he'd half-expected. Then again, even in Dorne winter wasn't warm. "I'm fine, thank you."

"So what can I do for you?"

"You were with Robert Baratheon at Pyke," she said. "Varys and I were wondering what happened to the Seastone Chair."

"The Seastone Chair?" Viserys blinked. "Gods. I haven't thought about that in years. Why?"

"We're trying to investigate cases of magic and the black stone the Seastone Chair is made of is linked to other sites that use the same sort of stone - Asshai, the Five Forts, the Inner Wall of Volantis..."

"The Volantene wall isn't made of the same stone. It's black, yes, but it's basically granite blocks fused together with dragonfire."

Obara rubbed her chin. "You're sure?"

"I've been to Volantis and I've seen the walls. I can't speak for Asshai, of course." He sait back and looked at her. "Robert wanted to break up the Seastone Chair... or at least throw it over the side and into deep water. Jon Arryn disagreed though, so when he resigned as Hand, Robert gave him the chair and told him to do what he wanted with it. So far as I know, it's somewhere in the Vale right now."

"The Vale..." The woman lowered her head. "That's the second time it's come up lately."

"The second time?"

Obara nodded. "Prince Eddard sent word via my uncle that his sources suggest Robin Arryn - of all people - may be in contact with Sansa Stark."

"I thought the Prince's daughter was dead." He'd certainly assumed as much given that Jaime Lannister hadn't returned from his self-imposed quest to rescue his sister Cersei.

"He claims that she's a prisoner in the White Keep."

Viserys scratched his head. "Prince Eddard sending word via Prince Doran would seem just as roundabout as a boy in the Vale communicating somehow with a girl held prisoner near the old Night Fort. We're not talking about ravens here, are we?"

"Not really. My uncle has a way of comminicating over long distances. It involves glass candles, if you're familiar with them."

"No, I'm not versed in magecraft. Too busy selling my sword when I was in Essos... although I suppose your father managed."

She laughed at him. "My father has an excellent theoretical knowledge but no talent for magic."

Viserys let his eyes narrow dangerously and her laughter died. The anger he felt was real but better reined in than he let her see. It would be foolish to take out a moment's pique on her... but equally he would not want her to take him lightly. "I've no reason to believe that studying at the Citadel would have suited me better... or worse," he allowed after a moment. "So you want the Seastone Chair."

"Or at least to see if it can be somehow used against the Others. It seems at least remotely possible that removing it from Pyke might be related to their return."

"Robert Baratheon was many things but it's unlikely he would have unleashed such a threat to the realm. Still... if your theory has any merit it is possible he was in ignorance of it. He was much like his brother in his preference for the material as a solution."

"It's our own thought." Obara pushed her chair back. "Thank you for your counsel, Ser Viserys."

"Wait." He held up his hand. "You intend to send someone to the Vale. A raven would hardly suffice for this matter."

"That's a reasonable assertion."

Viserys rose and stalked around the table, unlatching the window and throwing it wide. Cold air rushed in, dragging at his belongings. In the air over the city a shape too large to be a mere bird flapped wings longer than a man was tall. "I believe," he said with a look at the pale haired figure atop Banthis, "That there is an emissary who can reach the Vale faster than any mere horse. Perhaps two if my sister believes her mount can bear someone more than one rider..."

"That's Daenerys?"

"I certainly hope so." He leant out of the window, heedless of the chill and cried out: "Erinnon Targario! Zaldrizes kipago, Targario!" Triumph, Targaryen! Dragon rider, Targaryen!


	44. Chapter 44

**Varys XX**

Varys had no sooner arrived in the Small Council's chamber than he was confronted by a most terrible enemy and one he didn't expect at all.

"Aerys Blackfyre, you had better have an excellent reason for disturbing my daughter's sleep to call a meeting at this absurd hour." Alysanne Baratheon jabbed him firmly in the chest with one finger.

Varys stared down at her finger. "I was rather hoping to learn why I'd been dragged from my bed before dawn."

"The messenger clearly said it was the Master of Whispers who instructed -"

"Mother." Cassana was bundled in layers of robes against the cold of the night. "I'm no longer a child who must sleep the entire night."

Alysanne turned back to her daughter. "You're taking on too much. Your father..."

"Father isn't here. We are." Cassana rested her hands upon the arms of her chair. "And I have more than one Master of Whispers."

As if on cue, the door opened and Obara Baratheon entered, followed by her father, her sister Nymeria and the Hand of the King. Obara seemed to have aged ten years since the evening meal and Oberyn Martell's face was dark, his pace brisk. He seemed to have too much energy to sit and instead gripped the back of his usual chair.

"My queen, I apologise for the hour." Obara sat down and waited for Stannis to circle the table and sit at Cassana's right hand. Alysanne sat at her daughter's left and no one gainsayed her. She offered Varys no apology but he wouldn't have expected one.

"We're all awake now. Please explain the reason."

Obara cupped her hands before her. "In the next few days a raven will arrive from Dorne. It's probably already on the way."

"Are we going to break the habit of my husband's reign and have it be good news?"

"Mother, this is my Small Council." Cassana didn't look aside. "I would value your counsel, but I'll have no gibes."

Alysanne turned to look at her daughter. "I..." She took a deep breath. "I apologise. I've slept poorly since... I should not allow my temper to get the better of me. With your permission, I will withdraw."

"As I said, I would appreciate your counsel," her daughter said quietly.

"My brother is dead." Oberyn Martell's simple words brought the council back to business. "My niece will say that he died in his sleep."

"My condolences, Prince Oberyn." Cassana rubbed her eyes. "I've never met him but through his family I have learned to value Doran Martell."

Varys' eyes narrowed as he considered the exact words and the weight each was given. "Of itself, you would not call Council so urgently," he observed. "There is more."

"It is true my uncle died in his sleep." Obara looked up. "He was smothered."

"How do you know this?" Stafford Lannister seemed lost. "Sunspear is a thousand miles south of us."

"A thousand years ago, when Nymeria led the Rhoynar to Dorne, she didn't just bring ten thousand ships. She brought artifacts of their realm. It was a different age, one where dragons ruled the skies and sorcerers were more than a dusty topic for Maesters and old men." Oberyn smiled darkly and produced a short chain of metal links from his tunic, holding it so one link was most plainly visible. In the candlelight it was still plain what metal it was. "What lore I learned I passed to Doran and such of those artifacts that didn't fall into the hands of the Citadel are still ours."

Colemon nodded. "I have seen glass candles at the Citadel. All acolytes spend a vigil in their vault before they may give their vows."

"Using such tools, my uncle was able to communicate with me at night, as we slept." Obara rubbed her eyes. "Tonight was such a night. As men pinned him to his bed and smothered him with a pillow, I could hear his every thought."

Varys fought back a shudder. He was not alone in the reaction although he thought most reacted to the death and not to the thought of what Doran might have been doing. If he could share his thoughts with his niece, who was to say he could not have violated the thoughts of others - perhaps without their being aware.

* * *

  
**Stannis XXIV**

"I don't understand your magic." Stannis clenched his fists beneath the table. Murder of a prince. It reminded him of Tywin Lannister's death. Was nothing beneath the Dornish? "But if you tell me Doran was murdered I believe you. We need to know, though, who it was."

"If we make unsupported accusations, we'll likely face opposition," Cassana said quietly. "I don't know Arianne well. How is she likely to respond?"

"She's almost certainly behind it."

Cassana paled at Obara's words. "She'd kill her own father?"

"Not with her own hands." Obara looked around the table, meeting the eyes of everyone in turn. "She prefers to act through others."

"There was always the suspicion that she pushed Quentyn Martell into poisoning Tywin Lannister." Alysanne looked over to Nymeria who had been waiting quietly by the door. "I know my husband suspected that Tyene Sand provided the poison but there was no evidence and Quentyn claimed sole responsibility."

"Arianne is my brother's heir." Oberyn leant over his chair. "I don't wish to think that she'd stoop to kinslaying, and for no cause I can see."

Stannis nodded. "Sandor Clegane tells me there's always a reason, however twisted, for a crime being committed. The criminal invariably considers themselves justified. What justification could there be for killing her own father? No one lives forever so she would have inherited his throne in time."

"Not necessarily." Nymeria stepped forwards to the table. "I'm sure Obara has told you that although my uncle ultimately decided to throw his support behind House Baratheon, for a long time he was considering backing Prince Aegon or possibly even Ser Viserys in restoring House Targaryen. The price for this support would have been the new king marrying Arianne. As queen, Arianne would have had to pass the succession of Dorne to one of her brothers."

That, Stannis thought, would have been as foolish as Robert passing Storm's End on to he or Renly. Retaining the direct fealty of lords in both the Crownlands and the Stormlands was one of the key reasons his brother was arguably the most powerful king since the Targaryens lost their dragons.

"If those plans are as done with as you say, I don't see why she'd still be feeling her father's... an obstacle." Stannis thought from Cassana's tone that she was still struggling with the idea.

"Yes, well..." The dragon rider looked embarrassed. "Well we didn't know about the Targaryen matter for years, but Arianne knew that Prince Doran was preparing Quentyn to be heir. And after Quentyn died, she and her father never quite reconciled."

Alysanne studied her hands. "Trust, once damaged, is hard to rebuild."

Oberyn nodded sharply. "If my brother had decided to remove Arianne from the succession I believe he would have done so without drawing out the matter. If she believed it was impending though... well, I'm less convinced than Obara but I could see her acting precipitiously."

"It's just a theory. We need facts." Stannis glanced around the room, glad Viserys wasn't present. "For all we know this has nothing to do with Arianne - or it's her younger brother trying to set her up and have us clear a path for him to take the throne."

"I request permission to get those facts." Oberyn looked over to Nymeria. "If your dragon can manage a rider and a passenger, we can reach Sunspear and I know Doran's guards."

"I've flown Orbar short distances," she said thoughtfully. "If we take as little gear as we can, I think she can manage two of us for a few hours at a time. It would take a few days to reach Sunspear."

"Just being able to cross the Sea of Dorne without worrying about wind or tide would help."

"I have the recollection that the Dornish have a history of strong disapproval of dragons. Something tells me that arriving on dragonback won't do much for your credibility," Stannis pointed out. "We want justice, not a dragon-backed change of power in Sunspear."

"Are you sure about that?" asked Oberyn slyly.

"Yes."

"Oh, well it's a good job I don't want to be Prince of Sunspear and that Nymeria has next to no claim to succeed. As long as Arianne or Trystane wasn't involved in my brother's murder it isn't a problem, and if they both are then I can abdicate in favour of Obara."

Obara buried her face in her hands. "Please don't do that."

The Red Viper smirked. "It's my duty twice over - as Doran's brother and as Cassana's Master of Laws - to punish those who killed him. After that it's my duty to prevent a civil war in Dorne that could weaken us against the Others. Wouldn't you agree, Prince Stannis?"

"Preventing a civil war is my duty," Cassana declared before Stannis could - however grudgingly - confirm Oberyn's reasoning. "I'll allow you both to travel back to Dorne and to establish the truth but you're to bring the guilty to me for trial."

"That would not be easy, your grace."

"Would you be a kinslayer?" she asked coldly.

"Ah..." The prince eyed Cassana ruefully. "You're a grim one, your grace. A winter queen to your father's summer."

"And my brother's autumn." Cassana touched her crown. "Let us hope that we do not need a new ruler when spring comes."

Alysanne rose sharply. "Excuse me, I should see to your sisters," she told her daughter before exiting the room.

Stannis watched his goodsister leave and then looked across the table at the rest of the Small Council. "War in Dorne wouldn't just split the loyalties of the armies in the North. Dorne's supporting herds that we'll need to rebuild more northerly farms. If they get slaughtered to support warbands on the march then it'll likely extend the hardships of the winter by at least a year."

"I don't think dividing it the way we did the Reach would work."

He nodded at his niece. "Correct. Dorne is far more united under the Martells. Ideally the Martells can deal with this themselves."

"And if they can't? If we have a kinslayer on the throne in Sunspear."

"Then we... then you have to decide." Whether to remove the kinslayer by force or... given the likely cost of doing so, to do otherwise. Stannis found the idea distasteful but the logic was grim. And his sons wondered why he'd chosen not to claim the throne himself. Not that they had asked him about that, not yet.

Cassana rested her hands upon the table. "Oberyn, you have permission to go. But I'm sending Duncan Selmy with you as well as Nymeria. I want to send someone else with you and I'm sure that Orbar can't carry three..."

* * *

 

**Viserys XX**

Viserys's dreams of riding dragons had prepared him for the great vistas visible from the back of one and his extensive walking in the north had prepared him for the cold. They hadn't prepared him for the aching thighs and buttocks. Dragons didn't move the way horses did and the habits from there left him tensing at the wrong moments. He'd tried to keep it from Daenerys but he thought from the twinkle in her eyes that she'd noticed.

Of course, Banthis was also a lot smaller than Balerion had been. Large enough to carry two riders, but not all day, the black dragon had carried the siblings north in easy stages and it had taken them a week to reach the Mountains of the Moon.

"It's almost as if we're recreating Visenya's flight to the Vale," Daenerys offered cheerfully as the Eyrie came into view at last. "Back in the conquest, I mean."

"Well hopefully we won't have as much issue with the young Prince's mother."

She half-turned before him. "I don't know how much you remember Lysa Arryn from before you left..."

Viserys sighed. "Well enough. And if I didn't, her decision to winter up here of all places..."

Frost turned the Eyrie into a sparkling vision when light broke past the winter clouds, but fantasies and practical living had very different requrements. Daenerys had Banthis circle over it, looking for a suitable landing spot and ultimately settled on a tower. "See if they'll open the hall for us," she directed Viserys as he dismounted, legs stiff. "I don't want Banthis..." she paused and slapped the dragon's neck reprimandingly as Banthis craned around to eye Viserys speculatively, "getting cold out here. Night isn't far away."

"You might want to glide down to the Bloody Gate then. They'll have more firewood available."

"And leave you alone up here? I don't want to find you underneath the Moon Door in the morning."

"I'm reasonably sure Princess Arryn won't do that."

"I'm not and I'm the one with the dragon so it's my decision."

Viserys realised he was conceptually ill-equipped to deal with what had been his ancestor's core philosophy for thousands of years and yielded the point. "Well, I'll go introduce myself."

He'd barely reached the door at the bottom of the tower before he was greeted by two sworn swords, the lady of the keep and a very excited boy who greeted him with the words: "May I ride your dragon!?"

The temptation was too much. "You'd have to ask my sister." He stepped aside and the boy darted past him with an annoyed cry of "Rennart!" from his mother.

So this wasn't the young prince but his brother. "Princess Arryn." Viserys bowed. "Greetings from King's Landing."

"What do you want here, Ser Viserys?" she asked, tone as cold as the wind.

"My sister would like a warm hall for Banthis to spend the night in. I, on the other hand, have been asked to study the Seastone Chair. I gather your late husband had custody of it last."

Lysa Arryn eyed him suspiciously. Her eyes were as cold as her sister's had been when Viserys brought her husband back without half of one arm. "It's in the cellars," she told him after an uncomfortable pause. "I'll have the great hall opened but I doubt we can feed the beast for long."

Viserys nodded. "I thought as much. Tomorrow Daenerys can fly down to somewhere with better winter stores. If I can have a look at the chair..."

"Why do you want to see my brother's throne?"

He looked and saw a small boy looking out of a window above them. "Your brother's throne?"

"Robin!" called Lysa angrily. "I told you to stay inside in the warm!"

"But..."

Viserys gestured to the hall. "Perhaps we can all talk in the great hall once some fires are laid there."

With a acerbic sniff, Lysa turned to one of the men with her and gave firm instructions about laying fires in the hall. "And you go fetch Rennart," she said. "I don't want him riding that... aaaaah!"

Banthis spread his wings and took off. There were evidently two riders on the back of the dragon as it circled the Eyrie.

"I can tell she's going to be a soft touch when she has children of her own," Viserys noted to himself. "As fast as young Rennart talked her into riding Banthis, she'll be wrapped around her own children's fingers almost immediately." Not that she neeed much incentive to show off her current 'children'.

* * *

  
**Olenna XIV**

Being wrapped in furs she was convinced weighed as much as she did made it hard for Olenna to enjoy the opportunity to ride on a dragon's back. Then again, it would have been suicidal to sit side-saddle so for the first time she could remember she was wearing trousers and sitting astride a beast. She was quite sure she'd need to be lifted off it once it landed.

Assuming that it made landfall safely, that was. Duncan Selmy appeared to have inherited his father's conceit that death somehow only happened to other people or his uncle's belief that only the risk of death made life entertaining. Since both men were dead the lesson seemed obvious to Olenna but not to the boy in whose hands her own life rested upon.

Since crossing the Sea of Dorne, the two dragons had flown through the hills and mountains of Dorne and she was certain that the beasts had either been racing each other or daring each other to see who could fly closest to cliff-faces. Olenna privately judged Orbis the winner at the latter but Qelos, on which she rode, was certainly the faster.

She was resolved to return northwards by some sane method of travel. Or perhaps just to take a ship south from Sunspear. Somehow she doubted that she would be able to retire peacefully in any of the Reach's courts, particularly that at Highgarden. Garlan was the most sensible of her grandchildren but for that reason he wouldn't want her presence casting a shadow over his lordship.

To her great relief, after one overnight stop in a fishing village to orientate themselves, they reached the point that they could see the Summer Sea glittering ahead of them and the Rhoynish towers of Sunspear piercing the horizon.

Massive circle walls encircled the town that clustered around Sunspear and spilled westwards past the walls - the only direction that it could for Sunspear was surrounded on three sides by water. From aloft, Olenna could see crowds in the labyrintine streets and guards staring slack-jawed up at them from the Threefold Gate.

Bypassing all of this the two dragons landed in the open yard before the Tower of the Sun. Better disciplined than the gate guards or perhaps with slightly better warning, two score armsmen spilled out of doors, raising spears and bows towards the new arrivals. Most wore the sun and spear of Nymeros-Martell but there were others - all of houses among what were called the Salty Dornish: coastal lords, those whose houses had the deepest ties of the Rhoynish of old.

Oberyn vaulted down from Orbis with ease. "A strange welcome for a prince of Dorne."

"Not so strange when he comes on dragonback." Tyene Sand had found a balcony overlooking the yard. "Father, I greet you."

"Daughter." He put his hands on his hips. "I would see my brother."

The young woman lowered her face. "You must have passed a raven going north. I regreat to advise you that my uncle died in his sleep four nights ago. I am sure Princess Arianne will welcome your counsel."

"Will she?"

Olenna pushed at Duncan's shoulder. "Boy, help me down."

"Ah, Lady Olenna... if we need to leave hastily."

She wished for her stick. "Then leave me. The worst I'd face would be being thrown into a pit of vipers. At my age that's not much of a threat."

"I'm sure they wouldn't do that," he said hastily and dismounted, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting. She heard him murmur something too soft for her old ears, even at this proximity.

"What was that about respecting snakes more?" she asked sharply.

The boy coloured. Even if she hadn't heard him exactly, it hadn't been hard to guess. "My apologies, Lady Olenna, I don't know what you mean."

"Learn to lie better. You're a lord and even with no dragon, some subtlety can cover for many faults."

"Do you have a new paramour?" Tyene asked her father wryly. "Ellaria will be crushed."

There was a muffled snort from Nymeria.

"Alas that I must admit that the good lady is immune to my charms." Oberyn's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Is that what they're called these days?" She leant upon Duncan. "I would rather speak with Doran even so. My experience of his daughter is that he'll still provide a more civilised conversation."

"Your own grasp of that seems wanting, Queen of Thorns." Arianne Martell stood between the wide doors of the Tower, looking down the steps at them. Despite the cold she wore a dress in the Dornish style. "Perhaps your son's indulgence gave you the impression you have licence to insult a princess while a guest in her own court?"

"I would say more that it's the habit of serving kings - and now a queen - who would prefer a blunt truth to a self-serving lie. Doran Martell thought likewise and by preferring otherwise you prove my point."

Oberyn looked around the yard. "I see few familiar faces. A new princess, a new order at court, one supposes."

"Quite."

"A shame. I would have wished to speak with Areo Hotah. Quite firmly, given my brother's wellbeing was his charge."

Arianne frowned. "I wouldn't imagine he has gone far in a few days. Though, in truth uncle, my father was old and unwell. A guard can do little against such things."

"He can prevent a pillow across the face."

The princess showed only surprise. "A pillow... you suggest father's death was unnatural."

"Some would say that assassins are a natural cause of death for princes."

Arianne's gaze flickered back to Olenna at the remark. "This is a matter for Martells. Tyene, be so good as to arrange quarters for Lady Olenna, Lord Selmy and the dragons. Uncle, cousin, please join me in my father's chambers where we can talk with fewer rumours spreading."

Too late for that, thought Olenna. By sunset the rumour that Doran was assassinated will be all across Sunspear. Arianne could not afford to let this matter pass now, she needed a quick and clear resolution. If she was guilty she would now need a scapegoat - and if she was not then she might well share her uncle's lust for revenge.


End file.
